


Lady of the Lake

by Colubrina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-01-15 18:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 50
Words: 169,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21257720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colubrina/pseuds/Colubrina
Summary: Hermione and Draco team up after the war to overthrow the Order and take over wizarding Britain.  They have plans and they'll get power, but the cost of victory may be higher than they expected and more than they can bear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on FFN between August 2014 and June 2015. Minor proofreading changes have been made in moving it over here.

It was the homework that got her, all the homework she’d done, and proofread for years. Well, that and that she’d made the plans, done the research, found the spells, and once it was all over, she’d somehow become the also-ran. She was the sidekick to the buddy picture of Harry and Ron, the chosen one and his best friend. It was infuriating. She’d spent months thinking about how everything had been bungled after the war, how perfectly good power vacuums had been thrown away for money and fame. How it wasn’t even _her_ money and fame. She could run things far better. Other people really couldn’t be trusted to make decisions.

For example, why would you even _call_ yourself the “Dark Lord”? Honestly, if you wanted to basically announce to the world, “I am up to no good,” that was a darn good way to do it. Still, for a man who _really_ wanted to take over, it was a stupid way to go about it. A woman who _really_ wanted _real _power would be smart enough to have a title like “Assistant Deputy Researcher of Uninteresting Artifact Misuse and Runic Translations”; she’d go about acquiring minions and power and influence until it was too bloody late for anyone to do anything about it. You can’t mount a noble force to take down an Assistant Deputy of Research; you’d just look silly.

She tapped her fingers on the table, watching Harry and Ron hold court at the bar. Neither of them glanced her way; she doubted they even knew she was here, sitting in the shadows, watching them bathe in their glory.

“Does it ever just chafe your arse, Granger?”

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

“I’m just enjoying watching the show. Kicked you to the curb, did they? Third wheel much?” He throws back a drink, not, she’s guessing, his first, and tosses today’s paper at her; it’s another glowing bit of selective hagiography. Harry and Ron beam at the camera on the front page, arms around each other. “Learn More About the Boy Heroes Who Saved Wizarding Britain”

Sometimes the little trick pony show makes her want to vomit.

She turns to actually look at the boy – the man – who’s slid into the chair across from her. He’s still pretty, with that blond hair and that ridiculous bone structure. He’s got a mean look in his eye, but he’s clearly directing it at the bar, not at her. She, she suspects, is meant to be his audience so he can rant about how much he hates Potter and Weasley. She cuts him off.

“I opted not to participate in the song and dance routine and was promptly written out of the narrative. I didn’t suffer and sacrifice to whitewash this administration. So, yeah Malfoy, you can call it kicked to the curb if you want to. Wanker.” She downs her shot. “I just can’t believe after everything the Ministry did to Harry he’d sign up for this little bread and circus crap. I thought we were going to reform…”

“...everything?” The blond snorts. “You were going to make everything better? Make it all fair and just and shit like that. I’m surprised you were that stupidly naïve. I always gave you credit for being the brains in that little operation. My bad, I guess.” He sighs. “Don’t you ever even _want_ credit for everything you did?”

She bites the inside of her cheek. “I did when I thought that credit would translate into power, that I would be able to…”

“…reform everything?” 

“Yeah.” She tapped on the paper, poking Ron in his grinning head. The picture flinched away from her finger, and she began to hit it harder and harder until both images were cowering in the corner of the frame. Draco Malfoy watches her, clearly fascinated. “I don’t think I care much about reform anymore, though. I think I might become an assistant researcher. The Assistant Deputy Researcher of Uninteresting Artifact Misuse and Runic Translations, to be precise. I think I might become so dull and forgettable that no one spares me a second glance.”

“Is this a purloined letter kind of thing, or are you actually planning to fade away into an obscure and tedious job?” 

“What do you think?”

“I think you begin to interest me,” he looks steadily at her and then throws some money on the table. “Would you care to join me for another drink away from the vulgar crowd? 

“I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere private with you. Forgive my cold cynicism in not trusting a man who tried to murder his school headmaster.”

“It was a stupid assignment.” 

“I beg your pardon.” Not that she didn’t agree with him, but she was interested in his reasons. 

He shrugs and slouches back in the seat, eyes on the bar again. “Terrorism isn’t really an effective way to stage a coup. If he’d actually marched into the Ministry, announced he was in charge, and distributed some form of bread and circuses to appease the masses, along with a tax cut, that might have worked. Better still to have a figurehead in place and control things from the shadows. But that fool wasn’t interested in the mundane details of power. He just liked violence. He was like a toddler flailing about, knocking things over. No sense of strategy at all.”

“And how,” she asks, “would you have done it?” 

He looks at her and smirks. “Not quite the idle question, is it?” A shrug. “I’d do away with the identifying tattooing and creepy fireworks. I’d keep a low profile – Assistant Deputy Researcher, I think you suggested. I’d slowly collect a following whose personal loyalty was unquestioned and avoid the temptation to torture them at will. It’s fine for people to fear you, but to fear you’re an unpredictable madman, well, I’ve noticed that that doesn’t lend itself to success. I’d place my people in positions of increasing importance in government while manipulating public opinion. The election that made me Minister would be the last one anyone would participate in, and they’d cheer me for stripping them of their franchise. Propaganda is a far stronger tool than violence. Hail Caesar.” He raises his glass to her in a mock toast. 

“And why haven’t you put this excellent plan into place?”

“’Malfoy’ isn’t really a name that inspires people these days. I’m just a tad despised. That’s quite a bit to work against. There isn’t anyone left in pureblood society that really inspires the plebian masses. You could do it.” He looks at her. “Except for the mudblood problem. The war heroine thing would work in your favor, especially since you’ve been so brutally shoved out into the cold by the current party in power; the old, entrenched families don’t really care for Potter. But blood status prejudice is just too much to overcome. Pity, really.”

She reaches across the table and picks up his wand. It’s such a gross violation etiquette - so unheard of - that he tries to grab it back instantly, and she holds it out of his reach.

“Merlin, Granger, you can’t just go about taking people’s wands. What’s wrong with you?”

“You lay out a plan for quiet revolution, and then you complain I take your wand? Why shouldn’t I summon an Auror and turn you in right now?” She’s running her fingers along the shaft of the wood and has tipped her head to the side. He’s mesmerized by the sight of her hands, can almost feel them on his skin as she moves them over his wand.

“Because,” he finally gasps when she stops moving her fingers and points his own wand at him, “Because you want to do it, because you’re sitting here contemplating revenge on the people who dismissed you, on taking over and doing things properly. Because you’re smart enough, but you’re still almost totally transparent, and I can read every thought you have as it flits across your face. Because – for Merlin’s sake, would you stop pointing that at me and give it back – you’d make a hell of a Dark Lady, and you’re clever enough not to turn down my help if I’m offering it.”

“Not Merlin, Malfoy,” she breathes. “Nimue.” She gestures with his wand towards the bar, and it takes all of his control not to snatch it back from her. “They’re Merlin. And I’m going to lock them up in a tree. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

He puts his hand out, a silent plea for the return of his wand, and she sets it in his palm, leaving her hand on his, and he feels his pulse surge wildly in his veins. 

“It’s true.” Her hand is still across his, but she’s speaking in an almost totally unconcerned voice as if she weren’t acknowledging plans of insurrection, as if she weren’t accepting his help. His, let’s be honest, drunken offer of fealty. “The most effective route to power would be divide, or unite, people around an already existing concern. Unfortunately, the only really contentious issue in wizard society is the blood status thing, and, as you pointed out, I’m not exactly positioned to take advantage of that one.”

“What if you were pure-blood?”

“What if galleons rained down from the sky?”

“No. I’m being wholly serious. If you were widely believed to be a pure-blood, you could do it.”

“And how, exactly, would I make people believe something so patently false?”

“Rumors.”

“What?”

“Well, you can’t just come out and announce you aren’t a mudblood. No one would believe you, and, besides, such a lack of finesse is pathetic. No. We start a rumor that you have to be a pureblood. Just a couple of whispers in the right place, has to be a pureblood, do you really think a mudblood would be so powerful, so quick to pick up magic. Propaganda.” He shrugs but doesn’t pull his hand away from under hers. “People’s innate prejudices will do the rest. It would help if we were a couple. No one who knows me would think I’d date a mudblood.”

“And when someone flat out asks me,” she muses, “I’ll just deny it.”

“Better yet, don’t quite deny it. ‘I have the greatest respect for the people who raised me and would never deny them that way.’” He runs his tongue around his lips. “The pure-blood obsession with family loyalty will end up working to your advantage too. ‘The girl is so loyal she won’t even denounce her adoptive parents. Blood will out, no muggle-born would ever be that faithful’ and so on.”

“You have begun, Draco Malfoy, to interest _me_.” She takes her hand away, and he slips his wand back into a pocket. “I think I will take you up on that drink if the offer still stands. We can talk about how I will ascertain whether I can trust you.”

He stands and offers her his arm, with the full formality he’d give to a woman at a pureblood gathering. “My lady?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”


	2. Chapter 2

Back at his flat, he holds out a sealed bottle of veritaserum and a bottle of antidote. “That,” Hermione says, “is a controlled substance. Illegal to have, illegal to administer.”

He laughs at her. “You’d rather not be involved with an illegal substance? You want to talk about a staging a coup and installing yourself as the Dark Lady, and you’re worried about violating substance abuse regulations?”

She meets his eyes, and he’s amused by how irritated she looks as she takes the vials. “Get the drinks.”

He walks to the cabinet, pulls out two glasses and a bottle of scotch. “Muggle whiskey?” she asks.

“I can’t believe you don’t know I’m a snob, Granger. I don’t really care where something came from as long as it’s the best.” He pours the drinks, sets them on the table in front of her, and waits as she opens the potion, adds three drops to each glass. He looks at her, surprised.

“I’m sure you have some things you’d like to ask me; trust here is going to have to go both ways. Assuming, of course, I don’t obliviate you after you drink that and start talking.”

He’s leaning up against the wall when he sips his drink, then takes a large swallow and waits for the drug to kick in. She’s too close, right at the edge of his personal space, and he can tell she’s actually enjoying that he has to consciously try not to move. “Explain why I should stay, twitchy boy.

He can feel an overwhelming, drugged urge to talk about everything, and struggles to stay focused. It’s one of the problems with truth serums; people tend to babble on incoherently without carefully directed questions. “I can help you. I can help you turn yourself into a power. I can – “

“Yes.” She reaches up and puts her hand over his mouth, and he’s shocked into silence. “I’m sure you can do a lot of things. I’m sure you’d be very, very useful. I’m just not sure why you would want to be useful to me or whether I could trust you.” She takes her hand away. “Speak.”

He recognizes the permission - no, the command - and his gut clenches. He’s had a lot of commands in his life, some delivered as careless little asides, some delivered at the point of a wand. Plenty of them had ended in pain. “I hate – really hate - Harry Potter and his little sycophants. He nearly killed me in school and got off with detentions because he was the specialist of special snowflakes. But, more, the Order of the Phoenix is a bunch of thieving, worthless scum who’ve enriched themselves in the name of reparations. The Dark Lord - ”

She cuts him off. “Voldemort. Call him Voldemort. Or Riddle, if his pretentious, made-up name is too much.”

“As my Lady wishes,” he raises his glass towards her, half-mocking, then takes another swallow. “Riddle was a psychopath who needed cutting down like a mad dog. No argument from me there. The man lived in my house, took my father’s wand, threatened my mother. I was quite familiar with his horror show. But your little Phoenix club has profited from that war to an obscene extent. It wasn’t enough to throw the surviving conspirators into prison; they looted enough to cover all war expenses and then some, then a lot of ‘some.’”

She nods. 

“Your Order, or excuse me, the Ministry, has confiscated land, houses, businesses, and passed them out to their family members and friends. It’s patronage on a far wider scale than any corrupt pureblood ever dreamed. And you know what I can do about it? Nothing. I can’t help my friends, my mother, myself. I can’t join the government, become some bureaucrat, and get things changed. I can’t pull strings from behind the scenes like my father did. It wouldn’t work. Not for me. All I can do is go to bars and get drunk and watch your best friends perform, distracting the masses like trained bears, lapping up the milk and honey.” He’s angry now, and not paying attention to the words as they fall out of his mouth. “Did the Weasel ever lap at your milk and honey, Granger? Is that why you hate him so much now?”

She slaps him. Hard. He grabs her wrist, an automatic reflex, and looks at her; it’s pain at her hands, certainly, but a slap. Not the torture his aunt would have inflicted. Had inflicted. They stare at each other for a while. He looks away first, letting her wrist go.

“Stick to the topic at hand, which is whether I can trust you to help me plan an insurrection,” she finally spits out, rubbing where he’d grabbed her. “Not inquiries into my love life.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“They’re not my phoenixes, you know.” 

“I know.” He pauses, bitterly. “Look, you have the populist appeal. They fucked up when they removed you from their little song and dance, they made a mistake, and it’s one I can exploit. We can exploit. I can build a force supporting _Hermione Granger_ in a way I could never do for myself. You’re the bastard prince the country can rally behind. Me? I’m just the advisor no one likes. I can get you entry into the pureblood elites. I can structure a plot, lay rumors, design propaganda. But any narrative centering around a former Death Eater just won’t inspire shopkeepers and hedge witches to oust those Phoenix bastards. I can tell you all about currency debasement and the growing risk of hyperinflation, but no one joins an insurrection because they are upset about international trade imbalances. The beautiful, betrayed princess promising them purification and hope and glory? Oh, for that, they’ll turn out. I can get them flocking to your banner in droves.”

“So. I get your contacts, your support, your skills. You get a rallying point.” She frowns. “You’re pretty well keyed in to what’s going on politically and economically. And that you hate Harry, that I believe. That you like power, well, I’d buy that one even without the truth serum. I’ve known you long enough to have deduced _that_. But, while I’m sure you can sell your little fairy tale about my mysterious pureblood ancestry to your peers, can you – you - handle a mudblood Dark Lady? You hate me, you hate my blood, you hate my kind. My dirty, filthy, worthless kind.”

She lifts her hand and, with one finger, starts tracing the lines of his face. He knows she’s taunting him but, still, at her touch, he feels his pulse leap in his throat. It undoes him; the drugs have already stripped him, laid him out for her. He’s hasn’t anything he can use to brace himself against this simple contact. He hasn’t, after all, had a lot of gentleness in his life and has no practice in resisting it. He stares at her, his grey eyes wide.

“I hate them because they’re dangerous,” he whispers as she continues to trace the planes of his face: forehead, cheekbone, jaw, mouth. “Every one of them is a risk to the rest of us, a risk that some muggle friend or family will see them do a little magic and that the witch hunts will start again.”

“What about me?”

“You?” He laughs hoarsely, still mesmerized by her tracing fingers. “You’re the exception. Little miss perfect, brightest witch of her generation. You’d obliviate anyone you needed to. The only risk we have from you is that you’ll take over. Hermione.” It’s probably the first time he’s used her given name, ever, and her fingers tense, shocked, on his skin. “Why do you want to do this, truly? If you lose, you’ll die. It’s a hell of a gamble.”

“Second thoughts, Malfoy?”

He turns his face so he’s half-hidden in her hand, his hair falling into his eyes. “No. I’ve already thrown my lot right into your hand. I am, as they say, at your disposal. If you’ll have me.” 

She shrugs. “I can do it better, you know. I can’t stand to see things done badly. I’ve spent my life playing for high stakes, and in the end, I got nothing even though we won; this time, I’ll play, win, and take the prize for myself. In the end, I want to do it, plan to do it, because I can, so why shouldn’t I?

“You hate me for that, don’t you?” she continues, her hand still resting lightly on his face, under the curtain of his hair. “That I can do this thing, and you, for all your generations of exquisite breeding, can’t. Not without me.”

“A little, yes. But you need me too, Princess.”

“A little, yes.”

He mockingly kisses her fingers then pulls his head away from her hand. “Enough. Are you going to take me, or just strip my mind and leave?” 

She pours half the antidote into his drink, sips from her own. “Your turn to play twenty questions,” is all she says.

He swallows and studies her. She’s utterly relaxed, watching him back with a serious expression, shuttered for once. She nods at him, letting him know when she can feel the drugs take effect. He’s not sure what to make of this sense of fair play, that part of this game is new to him. 

“Do you trust me?” he simply asks. 

“Yes,” she says, quietly. “About the politics I do. That you’d prefer me, with you as a power behind the throne, to the current set up, yes. I still don’t like you, but I wouldn’t mind having you at my disposal, as you put it. Having the beautiful and brilliant Draco Malfoy willingly under my thumb? I think I would like that quite a lot.”

He flinches at that. It is what he’s offered, what he’s offering, but hearing it put so plainly by someone drugged into truth is still rough. “You’ll disband the Order, remove them from power? Let me help you?”

She nods. “That, surely.”

He takes the antidote from her, pours the rest of it into her glass. “That’s all I care about.”

“Well,” she drinks. “Conspiracy makes for interesting bedfellows.” He raises his eyebrows, and she snorts. “I didn’t mean it literally, don’t get your hopes up.”

“You think I frequently fantasize about bedding women I hate a little? Who don’t like me either?”

“I try not to think about what you fantasize about.”

“Right now, food.” Also, a little time to recuperate from their lacerating, drugged conversation would not be amiss, he thinks. A quick rummage in the flat’s small kitchen later, and he’s produced two sandwiches and a package of crisps. “My first act of service to the future Dark Lady, if you’ll accept it: dinner.”

She looks at the sandwiches. 

“Oh, for the love of… you don’t think I’m trying to poison you, do you?”

She snorts and takes a sandwich, balancing the plate on her knees. She’d settled into an armchair while he was busy, relaxing enough to sit, finally. “I just have trouble picturing Draco Malfoy, elitist snob, remembering to pick up bread and cheese at the grocer.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m more adaptable than you’d think. Look who I’m eating with.” He sits at the table and takes a bite. “And I do get the good cheese and the artisan bread.”

“Of course you do.”

When he finishes his sandwich, he sets the plate aside and asks, “Do you want to hear what I think we should do first?” She’s still eating, but she nods. “First, I think you should get that utterly boring job at the Ministry. It will give you access to the building and once you’re in you can calmly imperious your way to anything we’ll need as time goes on; long term you’re going to need to quit in some kind of dramatic showdown, right before you run for Minister, but first you need to get in.” 

“I can do that.”

“I’ll start getting the rumors planted that you’re pureblood so we can start bringing in people who’d never follow a mudbood.” She throws him a look, and he shakes his head. “You have to become inured to the word and exploit the blood prejudice. Riddle did, and it worked for him, and everyone knew he was nuts. People think you’re brilliant, but you still need a hook to pull people in, a simple cause they can get riled about. Be less obvious about it, so the ordinary people aren’t scared off by the thought of a second group of Death Eaters, but the core of your supporters are going to have to be purebloods; it’s where the influence is. They’ll be looking for clues that you support traditional blood purity ideals, and without that, they’ll never join.” She slowly nods, and he takes a deep breath. “And we need to start dating.”

“Remind me why?” She hands him the plate, and he moves it to the table.

“Because I’m an elitist arsehole who would never date a filthy mudblood,” he states baldly. “And it will explain why we’re together a lot of the time, which we’ll have to be to handle the planning. And then I can introduce you to my mother, who is also a blood purist. Once she accepts you as some kind of mysteriously orphaned pureblood, people will start paying attention, and we can begin recruiting your inner circle.” He pauses. “Also, because I’m beautiful and you want me under your thumb.” 

“Are you going to be able to stomach dating a ‘filthy mudblood’? If it doesn’t look realistic - ”

“I can manage,” he says flatly. “Can you?”

She looks at him, and slowly her face softens into a warm smile. She stands up and leans in towards him, brushes her nose against his, all mischievous adoration, then her mouth is on his, and her lips are parted just a little, and then, just as he raises his hands to pull her closer, to really kiss her, she leans back and her eyes are cold again. “I’m pretty sure I can, yes. I can do hard things. Can you?”

He’s shocked by how good an actress she is, and a little shaken. He wishes that kiss hadn’t been wholly feigned. That’s an unnecessary complication. “You’re good.”

“I should hope so.” She sits back down, pulls her feet up under her on the chair. “We’re planning to overthrow a government, after all. Just coming out and telling people they’re incompetent so we’re taking over probably isn’t going to work.” She’s finger-combing out her curls as she leans into the side of the chair; she’s obviously tired but still talking. “Once you’re in, there’s no going back. You’ve had one fairly unpleasant dark lord experience. Are you really so eager to try again?”

He shakes his head and exhales. “I wouldn’t call it eager. Let’s go with ‘willing.’” Maybe he is a fool; bravery has never been his forte and putting all his choices, all his freedom, in the palm of her hand, her rash, brilliant, Gryffindor hand, is undoubtedly a form of madness. But, oh Merlin, she’s right. She can do it. And he wants it done, wants the Order destroyed. “A couple of things. You’re going to have to dress differently. And - ”

“What’s wrong with how I dress.”

“You need to dress the role. Dark colors, simple, fitted. Nothing over the top, but start sending signals you aren’t the bushy-haired extra Weasley any more.” She’s narrowing her eyes, and before she can explode with outraged feminine vanity, he throws his hands up. “Look, clothes are costumes. Dress to at least imply you’re a dark, pureblood witch, okay? I don’t care what ratty monstrosities you wear in the privacy of your own flat, but in public, look the part. If you can kiss me, you can bloody well wear some black wrap dress instead of,” he looks at what she’s got on and cringes, “that. And heels.”

“I hate heels.”

“I don’t care. Heels signal power. Wear them.”

There a long, dangerous pause, and he wonders if he’s gone too far, given unasked for advice too freely. “You’d better plan on doing a lot of foot massage.”

He stifles his smile. She’s taking the suggestion; she’s actually listening to him. “We all have to sacrifice for the cause.” He sighs. The other thing he needs to bring up is even less pleasant than telling her she dresses badly. “Do you know legilimency?”

“No.”

“You should learn it. Occlumency too. The best way to start requires a willing partner. Which would seem to be lucky, lucky me. That we’re both a little drunk and tired, well, that probably won’t hurt. Our resistance is down. It can be – unpleasant - if you fight it.” He moves to sit on the floor in front of her and looks up. “Physical contact helps too.” He holds out his hands. Again, he feels his pulse leap at her touch and swears internally; if this works, this unwanted, unexpected attraction will be laid wholly bare to her. “Okay, I’m going to make eye contact, and you should try to drift into my head. I generally picture sorting through people’s closets to access their feelings, but different people use different imagery. Don’t expect things to be totally clear. Think impressionist paintings rather than photorealism.” He braces himself then, waiting for her to start, stiffening against remembered violation. Having someone in his head always makes him feel helpless, has always hurt. After the Dark… after Riddle and his aunt he’d sworn he’d never do this again, that no one could ever make him this vulnerable again.

She’s watching him, seeing him. “You hate this,” she murmurs.

“It’s very - ” he pauses. “It’s more intimate than sex. And I didn’t learn it from someone especially kind.”

“You don’t have to do this now. We’ll do it later.” She runs her thumbs over his palms, then drops his hands.

He’s ashamed of how relieved he feels, how grateful for even a short reprieve. But still, “You need to know this,” he mutters. “It’s practically in the Dark Leader handbook.”

“Not today, Malfoy.” She’s shaking her head. “Get me a book, let me research. I’m not rambling about in your thoughts totally unprepared. And, truly, tonight’s not good anyway; I’m tired, we’re both of us a little drunk, and, more, you’re terrified.” Her lips curve up in a smile he involuntarily thinks of as ‘entrancing.’ “While it’s nice that you’re afraid of me, maybe terrified is a bit much. You are, after all, my leader of plots and creator of plans and distributor of propaganda as well as my maker of sandwiches. You won’t be very effective crippled with fear. You might forget the mustard or buy inferior cheese or something.” 

“As the Lady pleases.” This time there’s no mockery. He looks down, leans up against the side of the chair, not touching her.

“You’re much better at this subservient thing than I would have expected.”

“I’m probably a tad woozy from the booze and drugs. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to my usual self tomorrow.” She’s running her fingers through his hair, twirling a lock around her finger. He can’t help picturing it as a leash connecting them, and he closes his eyes and shudders. “You’re better at the Dark Lady thing than I would have expected.”

She’s still playing with his hair. “I’m naturally bossy.”

“’Snot just that.” But he doesn’t elaborate, and she doesn’t ask. She probably doesn’t need to. After all, she’s already got him sitting, head bent, at her feet. 


	3. The First Date

_ I got the job. Congratulate me. _

_ . . . . . . . . . .  _

_ _

_ I’ll pick you up and take you out to celebrate Saturday. Remember what I said about the clothes. _

_ . . . . . . . . . . _

_ _

_ You’re a prick. I know how to dress. _

_ . . . . . . . . . . _

_ _

Apparently, she does. When Draco arrives at her flat, making a mental note to have her move in with him as soon as possible so he never has to go to this neighborhood again, she’s dressed and ready to go, right down to the high heels. 

“Do you have any idea,” she greets him, “how hard it is to walk in heels on cobblestones? If I don’t turn an ankle, it will be a bloody miracle.”

The dress she’s found fits her, suits her. It’s stark and subtle and elegant. A sleek black column starts high on her neck and slides down curves, ending below her knees. She’s pulled her hair up into a tight series of braids crossing her head like snakes sunning themselves. He makes a spinning gesture with his finger, and she turns in front of him. “Nice,” he finally says. It’s an understatement. It’s more than nice, and she may not like the heels, but she certainly knows how to move in them. 

“Are you sure?” He stares at her in disbelief, but she’s being wholly serious. “Molly always wore things with flounces and layers, said that was the prettiest way to dress up; my own mother was more of a jumpers and sensible shoes kind of woman. Are you sure this works? Ron always…”

He cuts her off. “What Ron Weasley knows about women is how to find the cheapest slag in any bar. Do me a considerable favor and never, ever use his opinion as a guide for clothing, or behavior, or anything else. And his mother was – is – a dumpy old bat who needs to use layers to hide what birthing seven brats and overindulging in bread and potatoes will do to a body. Not, I assure you, a problem you have.” He walks around her. “At all.” Coming back around, he puts a finger under her chin and tilts it up. “How much ogling am I permitted to do, anyway?”

“What would you do if our little romantic façade were real?”

He backs up and looks at her. Kiss you, he thinks. Ravish you until all that bound hair fell down around your face, and you were whimpering my name, dinner reservations be damned. No fool, however, he merely says, “Probably not have had to inspect you to ensure you were presentable; girls who wear jumpers and sensible shoes aren’t really my type.” He tosses her a package. “I’d have given you this with a little more fanfare.”

She looks at it.

“It’s not going to open itself, Granger.”

“We’re dating. We’re probably on a first-name basis.” But she’s pulling the paper off the box and pulling out his little present. 

“I figured you probably didn’t have any dark witch accessories lying around. Hermione.” She slips the bracelet on, and a plain silver snake wraps around her wrist three times, spiraling up to a pair of sparkling black eyes. “It completes the dress.”

“Thank you. It’s very - ” she pauses. “Reptilian.”

Well. He’d hoped for a little more enthusiasm; it’s not every day he gives a woman jewelry, much less quality jewelry. “It’s also a piece that flashes a traditional symbol without looking like I looted my grandmother’s jewelry box or, worse, some cheap shop catering to teenagers with neither taste nor money. Try to make sure it gets in the photo the reporter takes tonight.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound - it’s just…” she’s stammering, and he’s glad she feels awkward after her snippy little reptilian comment. She may be brilliant, she may be the face of their new, dark age, but he can still throw her off balance.

“You’re a dark witch, remember? Planning to recruit other dark witches by convincing them you’re a closet pureblood so you can collect supporters and stage a coup? I’ve planned an elaborate evening with dinner and an accidental run-in with a reporter so we can get in the society pages as a romantic item of note and make people ask, ‘why would such a blood purist arsehole date a mudblood?’ Try to keep up.” Mockery saturates his words.

“Don’t push your luck, Malfoy.” 

“Draco.”

“What?

“First name basis, remember?”

She sets the empty box down, oh so very carefully, on a table. “I suppose I should consider myself honored you’ve chosen to gift me such a lovely trinket. Thank you for your considerate present. I’ll make sure the right people see it.” She drops a faux curtsey, somewhat hindered by the cut of the dress, and he smiles coolly at her, and if his blood begins to race a bit, well, he gives no sign but just watches her as she goes on.

“I’ve dressed the way you asked, right down to the miserable shoes. I’m wearing your bracelet. Let’s go to our little masquerade before you goad me into losing my composure.” She pauses. “Tell me about the reporter. How did you manage that?”

“Ah, that is really more happenstance than plotting, I have to admit. After dinner, I thought I’d take you for a walk down the street to get some ice cream. There’s a book signing tonight, and your best friends will be there, which means the press will be there, which means outing our little romance will be fairly easy. If we’re really lucky, one of them will punch me, and you can hover over me looking concerned and vulnerable.”

“Casting them as violent and irrational?”

“Is that a problem?”

She snorts. “Accurate enough that one would think you’d been a part of our golden circle. Getting Ron, at least, to overreact to you shouldn’t be hard. I’m sure the idea that I’m dating you will short circuit what little rational thought he has left after these last few years of non-stop adulation.”

He opens his mouth, and she cuts him off. “No, I’m not talking about it, so don’t ask.”

He can’t help but wonder what severed their friendship. He’d endured years of their ridiculous group, mocked them relentlessly, hated them. Her crush on the idiot redhead had been open knowledge. Not even a war had been able to break them up, but something about the aftermath had, and viciously enough that she was still angry. Maybe Weasley just liked them dumb, the worthless prick. His loss, Draco thinks to himself, my gain. Our gain, he corrects himself. Our side’s gain. Arm extended, he just says, “So, milady, off to dinner?”

“Don’t call me that in public.” She takes his arm, melts into him, and the game is on.

“Never accuse me of being so obvious, Hermione. It wounds me.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Dinner is pleasant, if uneventful. He’s picked a restaurant where no one would object to a muggle-born, even covertly, but where that she’s with him will be noted and gossiped about. It had been a tricky balance, and he was pleased with himself for finding it. 

“Congratulations,” he toasts her, “on your scintillating new job. I’m sure you’re the most overqualified second assistant to the under deputy researcher of runes they’ve ever had.”

“I’ll try not to fall asleep at work. Honestly.” Hermione sips from her flute. “People act as though translating ancient runes is difficult; you should hear these people complain. Lazy sots. But, there’s some good stuff tucked away in Ministry archives that hasn’t seen the light of day in centuries. I’m going to start indexing things we might find useful.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you ever stop being an insufferable know-it-all?”

“I’ve been told not, no.”

. . . . . . . . .

Hermione is, Draco has to admit, terrifyingly skilled at being good company. She leans in towards him, seems to find his anecdotes amusing, echoes his opinions back at him just altered enough to not sound like mindless repetition. Her dark eyes peer at him in the candlelight, framed by long lashes, her smile tantalizes. It’s easy to forget she’s pretending to be enchanted, easy to just look at the beautiful woman laughing with him, drawing a little charmed circle around them both, making men envy him her company. When they push out the door, throwing their young bodies into the street, good-natured, indulgent looks follow them. Who can resist the joy that spreads out from new love, from the beauty of youth delighted with itself, delighted with one another? If a few older women look at her with cool speculation in their eyes, if a few older men noted who he was, who she was, and raised an eyebrow, well, so begins his campaign. Look at me, he thinks, look at me and ask yourself if you really think I’d be out with this woman if her blood status is what you thought it was. Would Lucius Malfoy’s son offer a mudblood his arm, take a flower from the vase at the hostess stand and tuck it behind her ear with a laughing bow? Never, never in all the world.

Except, of course, he is doing all of those things. Conspiracy makes odd bedfellows, indeed. 

Outside the bookstore, he stops her, posing them both in the light of a streetlamp. She spins, arms out, face up to the light, and when she almost trips on a cobblestone, he steadies her. “Have that removed,” he quips, and she laughs, the sound racing out, a lure pulling in not only smiles from passing older couples but a photographer taking a cigarette break outside the book signing. The man spots distinctive blond hair, glowing under the light, and nonchalantly pulls his camera up just in case his tedious assignment yields an added, society page bonus.

Draco leans forward and breathes into his date’s ear, “I think I like you as my adoring girlfriend.” He nuzzles her with his nose and then, laughing, brushes her lips with his. She melts into him and pulls her head back and looks him in the eye, and he can suddenly feel her flit against the edge of his brain, and he’s frozen as she lets herself into his head and hovers there. He can tell she’s just standing in the doorway, not actually rifling through his mind. Not yet. “Do you? Really?” she whispers. A sweet and innocent smile rests on her mouth as he closes his eyes. He feels almost sick with fear, memories of knives scraping along his thoughts seizing him. When he looks at her again, “it doesn’t hurt,” falls roughly, unbidden, from his mouth. 

“I’m not your aunt,” her voice is low, barely a whisper, and she sounds contemptuous and amused and maybe a little bit wounded; the memory of the scar carved into her arm flashes through his brain. “No, La... Hermione,” he murmurs, leaning down into her, cupping her face in his hands. She doesn’t let herself further into his head, just whispers, “Try to remember that you’re mine, not the other way ‘round” as they share another very public kiss. It’s a good show, their false love. I’m going to drown in this woman, he thinks, and can’t decide if his willful immersion in her depths makes that more or less terrible.

That’s when the reporter takes the first picture. Looking at it later, Draco will almost wish they’d been able to put that one into the top spot but, given what happened next, that was never going to happen. Still, for many years, it remained his favorite picture of the two of them; Hermione’s curving into him, looking up with the warm expression of a woman not just in love but someone who’s come home to safe harbor. Seeing her pulled towards him, seeing her look at him with a smile twitching her mouth up, no one would ever believe they, as a couple, weren’t simply meant to be. No one, no one but him, could know he’s holding on to her engulfed in a wrenching combination of desire and fear rather than love. This is the one, printed small, that he will cut out from the paper right before he tosses it, this is the one that he will tuck away in the back of a book where it will stay hidden away. 

“Hermione?” Ron’s coming out of the shop, pen still in hand from his book signing. He’s spotted them, so carefully arrayed in the light.

“Ron?” Hermione looks flustered and uncomfortable, even as she steps towards her old friend. 

“What are you doing here? What are you doing here with _him?” _Ron is predictably furious. 

“Dog in the manger, much,” drawls Draco even as Hermione murmurs, in apparent confusion, “I’m… I’m on a date, Ron.”

“With _Draco Malfoy_?” The contempt in his loud voice is drawing the crowd out of the bookstore as well as from the street, and Hermione stumbles to a sad stop, halfway between the two men, one heel neatly hooked around the edge of a particularly uneven cobblestone. Draco sees Theo Nott in the crowd, who looks at him and raises his eyebrows. Draco can see the man mouthing ‘We need to talk’ and nods.

“Well, yes.” She sounds so plaintive. She’s the last kitten in the litter, the one no one would take home. “You left me, Ron. It took me a long time, but I’m happy again. Draco takes care of me. He makes me feel wanted.” She’s gesturing weakly, waving that snake bracelet in front of the photographer, whose eyes widen with the unmistakable confirmation of who they are even as he continues taking photograph after photograph. Draco wonders, briefly, if the man would be interested in a society scoop on this budding romance and makes a mental note to check the byline tomorrow.

“You’re a muggle-born, Hermione. Draco Malfoy is never going to think of you as anything but trash,” snaps Ron. “Don’t fall for whatever he’s telling you. Did he give you that?” He’s pointing at the bracelet. “Something like that, it’s practically paying for your services. What are you, his mudblood whore?” And that’s when he shoves her. She stumbles back, the hooked heel making her fall, and Draco surges forward to catch her.

Harry has rushed out of the store and is grabbing Ron. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he’s demanding even as Hermione cries out.

“My ankle,” she gasps, and Draco’s immediately got her set down and is bent over her, gently tugging off her shoe and checking her to see if she’s okay. “It hurts,” she sobs, and she collapses against his chest shaking, seeking shelter in his arms. That’s the picture that makes the front page, Hermione crying on the pavement, Ron looming over her as Harry holds him back. “War Hero Assaults Ex-Girlfriend.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“You were BRILLIANT!” she exclaims as soon as the door has shut. Draco puts her down, gingerly, and she spins in a complete circle on that supposedly twisted ankle. “Dinner was lovely, but that scene. Draco – you are a propaganda mastermind. I can’t believe he was stupid enough to actually push me. I mean, I hoped, of course, but I thought I’d have to just fall over on my own.” She throws herself with glee onto the couch and laughs. “Let me play benevolent lady for a bit and hand out a reward. What, most trusted cavalier, would you most like? Try to stick to something I can actually give you at this point of our fledgling conspiracy.” 

“While I appreciate the praise and the offered reward, I just want to clarify,” he says, watching her, “that, while I know long-term, you want to destroy Ron Weasley… ”

“…Well, ‘destroy’ seems harsh.” Mirth still frames her, she’s got one hand tossed above her head and is kicking off her shoes.

“…what am I allowed to do with Potter?”

The silence lasts a long time. 

Finally, she sits up, relaxed no longer, and says, tight and controlled, “I don’t know.”

“I _hate_ him, Granger.”

“And he was my best friend for years. We survived hell together; you have no idea how long we were alone looking for... he’s never… just… leave him alone.”

He doesn’t agree to that. Won’t agree to that, so they wait in angry silence, her on her couch and him standing just inside the doorway. “If you touch him without my permission, I’ll kill you,” she says, at last. “Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, _Lady_,” his voice is the lowest, the coldest she’s ever heard it. “You think you can let sentiment tie your hands. You can’t. But there’s no hurry. I shall look forward to the day you tell me I can hurt that sanctimonious, self-righteous, priggish, smug - ”

“Enough.” She cuts him off. “I don’t need a thesaurus recital, thank you. Your opinion has been noted.”

Bitch, he thinks. “Fine. I’ll take my reward then.”

Blinking a bit at his rapid turnaround, she shrugs and pulls one foot up, starts to rub her sole. “And what have you decided you want?”

He smiles at her. Smirks, really. “A kiss.”

“But… you have kissed me. Why cheat yourself with a reward you’ve already had? Repeatedly.” She’s got the same tone in her voice she had when he complimented her appearance, unsure, easily rattled. “This whole night was filled with one little romantic pantomime after another.” She shakes her head and settles more deeply into the couch, subtly moving away from him. “Choose something else, don’t...”

He interrupts her, his voice low. “Do I get my reward for pleasing the Dark Lady, or not? This is what I want. This is the _only_ thing I want. And, my dear, I have no intention of ‘cheating myself’ as you so charmingly put it.” She manages to push herself even deeper into the upholstery, and he laughs at her.

“This isn’t romance,” he walks forward and looks down at her. “ This isn’t love. I’ll play at romance on the street, in the restaurant. In public, my heart is on my sleeve, and tomorrow our whole world is going to open their morning paper and find that we are madly in love and not a soul will hear differently from me. But that’s a lie, and we both know it. I still want you. Want you, Hermione. After a night of watching you pretend, watching every eye on you, I want to feel you actually kiss me, and I don’t especially care whether you like me or not.” He squats down in front of her and puts his finger under her chin. “You offered me a reward for services rendered, Lady, and this is what I’m asking.”

“This isn’t reasonable.”

“If you want reasonable, don’t look at a man who is joining with a woman he’s despised since childhood to overthrow a government. Are you planning on kissing me or reneging?”

She scoots forward, wary enough but playing the game with honor. Well, he thinks, time will strip that out of her.

“No pretense,” he says. “Nothing that isn’t real, you understand?”

He puts his hands on each side of her face, starts kissing along her jaw, little fluttery touches that have seduced any number of girls. He moves closer then, to the edge of her mouth, kissing first one corner and then the other before he finally presses his lips to hers. He explores them slowly, pulling back to run his tongue along them, to nibble at her bottom lip, and she at last sighs into him, opens her mouth, and he leisurely begins to explore it. She’s not fully inexperienced, but she’s still tentative, hesitant as she lifts her arms to wrap them around him, to pull him in closer to her. Without stopping the kiss – he’s starting to think he never wants to stop this kiss – he reaches his hands up and starts unpinning her braids, letting all that hair down so he can run his hands through it, so he can rumple that cool perfection. His hands tangled up in her hair – how could he have ever thought this glorious hair was anything but beautiful – he pulls away from her mouth and starts kissing her neck, scraping her with his teeth, leaving a line of small bites down to her shoulder. She’s the one who pulls him back to her mouth, who now frantically, hungrily devours him, and when he pulls away from her, looks down, she’s completely disheveled, her lips swollen, her mouth open and panting. 

He whispers hoarsely, “An excellent reward, Lady.” And then, with an elaborate, courtly bow, he turns to leave.

When his hand is on the door, she stops him. “Draco.” Her voice is as cool and unhurried as an autumn stream. If he hadn’t just seen her, just felt her clinging to him, he’d never have known how thoroughly he’d disheveled her.

“Thank you for the bracelet. I think it suits.”


	4. Chapter 4

“You got the goodiest of all goody-two-shoes to go out with you, wearing a snake on her wrist. An expensive snake. Something’s going on.” Theo has a drink in each hand, passes one over to him. Greg has the others and gives a bottle to Blaise before sinking into a chair that objects to his weight with a heavy creak. The bar is dark, really dark, and, other than a group arguing about quidditch in a corner booth, wholly deserted. Without a name, without a sign by the door, this is a place you have to know about. It’s a place for men of a certain class to congregate away from wives and girlfriends, to meet without being bothered. Twenty years ago, business deals were closed here. Ten years ago, Death Eaters would have swaggered through, dragging violence behind them; now the furnishings have that ‘replaced with whatever we found’ shabbiness, cold ashes choke the fireplace, and even the cobwebs have dust on them. Now it’s just them, former schoolboys, and the sports enthusiasts. “Do you actually like her?”

Draco thinks about his reply. “She’s possibly the most interesting woman I’ve met. I’d follow her anywhere.”

“I thought she was a mudblood. Not exactly your type. Have you taken to slumming or something?” Greg wipes at the sticky dust on their table in disgust.

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Despite the evidence of our current surroundings, I don’t slum. Though I am, you may have noticed, not always right.”

“Muggle parents, mate.” Theo shakes his head.

“Raised by muggles, certainly. You ever read the Ugly Duckling?”

“Where are those parents now?” Theo’s leaning back, drink in hand, pulling away from the table that Greg continues to blot at with a paper napkin. “They never clean this place, Greg. You aren’t going to get it sanitary with that thing; give it a rest.”

“Australia,” Blaise answers. “She sent them there during the war, totally obliviated any knowledge of her, to protect them. Afterwards, when she patched up their brains, they decided to stay, and she returned. The papers kind of swept it under the rug, but I don’t think they’re close. Hell, everyone at school knew she spent every holiday at the Weasley’s.”

“Merlin, can you imagine,” Greg muttered. “Raised by muggles, the only real people who’ll take you in the Weasleys? It’s enough to make me feel sorry for her.”

Draco smiles inwardly. He’d known Greg would be the easiest to convince. A dull man, if a loyal one, seeped in pureblood ideology. That Granger hadn’t been incompetent had always seemed a personal affront to Greg’s simple belief system. Now he’ll latch onto the idea of her as a pureblood with a convert’s obsessive zeal because it will shore up his own prejudices. 

“Well,” he drawls, “I’m not dating her because I feel sorry for her, that’s for sure, but you don’t really think I’d sully myself with her, no matter what she looks like, if she were what we thought, do you?”

“I think – no, I know - you’ve screwed any number of mudbloods, probably muggles too, in cheap hotels, so don’t be so high and mighty,” snorts Blaise. “Still, have to admit, I’ve never seen you actually take one out in public.”

“Standards,” Draco agrees.

“Standards,” and they all raise their glasses.

“Still,” persists Greg, “I thought she and Weasley were a thing.”

Theo looks at Greg with disgust. “Do you even look at a paper? Ever? Weasley’s turned his bit of war heroism into an excuse to sleep with every woman he can get his filthy little hands on, and the _Daily Prophet _chronicles his conquests like the distracting razzle-dazzle that they are. Why waste column space on actual news when you can run another tell-all article about that blood traitor’s worthless tarts.”

Draco laughs. “Not only aren’t they a thing, I think she might actually want to kill him.”

“She looked pretty sad last week, mate.” Theo snorts. “If I were reading their little confrontation correctly, she looked like a woman whose heart had been broken into teeny tiny bits.”

“Trust me on this one, she hates him. Potter, not so much, but she absolutely hates Weasley.”

“Anyone know why they broke up?”

“She won’t talk about it, almost took my head off when I asked.” Draco shrugs. He’s actually still insanely curious how that little romance went sour, but a healthy sense of self-preservation has kept him from pushing Hermione about it. 

Blaise always knows the gossip, even the things that don’t make the papers. “I heard he couldn’t get it up after the war. Blamed it on her, dumped her. Told her afterwards, in public, after he started screwing all his groupies, that she’d been his problem. Not sexy enough or something.”

“Instead of post-traumatic whatsit?” Greg snorts. “Fuck, what a bloody arsehole. Everyone knows some people needed a little time after the war. Some people screwed like rabbits, some people became kind of non-functional.” He looks up at the other men. “What? It got better! I don’t get any complaints. But you wouldn’t catch me telling some chick it’s her damn fault I freaked out after the war. That was some scary shit.”

Blaise raises his glass towards Draco. “Well, mate, she’s hot as hell now. I can’t imagine you’re having any of Weasley’s little troubles.”

Draco remembers her, flushed and disheveled, after he’d extracted his little reward, and says, with a certain vicious pleasure, “No, I can’t say that I am.” Unbidden, then, the thought of her hand in his hair, her touch a leash binding him to her, comes to him, and he controls a shudder, if not quite well enough for them all to miss it. Most, but not all.

Theo sends a level look at him across the table, and when the dark-haired man leaves to head towards the loo, Draco follows. They stop in a long, dank corridor, under a burned-out light, bottles in hands. “I’ve known you a long time, Draco. I know what you’re like with a new girlfriend and this is different. Really different. I can tell you’re not sleeping with her; you don’t look smug enough. I don’t even think you like her very much. Hell, you seem almost scared of her, which makes no sense at all, and, frankly, I don’t really believe she’s some foundling. Ugly Duckling my arse. You’re up to something.”

“Oh, I like her well enough. She’s fascinating.”

“Yeah? Lots of things are fascinating. Hippogriffs are fascinating. I understand some people are fascinated by ferrets. That Hermione Granger is suddenly on your arm, not looking like something the cat dragged in? That you’ve got her sporting a pretty little symbol on her arm? That you’re guarding your thoughts when you talk about your supposed conquest? That’s also pretty damn fascinating. Tell me what’s going on.”

Draco looks at him, raises an eyebrow, and asks, “How do you feel about the Order of the Phoenix?”

“Probably about the same as you. It’s a conversation we’ve had. Are you changing the subject, or getting somewhere?”

“How would you feel about seeing the end of said Order?”

“Like a lifetime of Christmas come all at once. Why?”

“What do you know about Nimue?” Draco persists.

“Lady of the Lake, learned everything Merlin knew than betrayed him, magically bound him into a tree. Eventually - ” the man pauses, “ – eventually she invested Arthur, and all his get, with the kingship.”

“Put it together, Theo.”

The other man looks at him for a while, leaning up against the dirty wall. Then, “You’re playing a dangerous game. Do you trust her?”

“Implicitly.” Draco laughs, that low, hoarse laugh. “I’d better. I put my life in her hands and told her to do with it as she chose so long as she ends the Order.”

“Death Eaters, again?”

“Merlin, no.” Draco shudders openly this time. “No fireworks, no tattooing, no gleeful terrorism for the sake of anarchy. We just quietly move in and take over, do things our way. She rallies the plebian masses for support, the third member of the golden trio, so cruelly rejected by them, the only one who can save us from Order corruption and decadence. Seize back our lands, disband the Wizengamot, return to a world with old privileges and responsibilities restored.”

“It’s got a certain allure, I admit.”

“Theo,” Draco looks at him levelly. “She’s a pureblood. A poor, unfortunate, lost soul who only recently learned of her true parentage. Wrong side of the sheets, of course, but pureblood.” His tone is laced with warning.

“Of course she is.” Theo smiles. “How could a woman so very, very good at magic be anything else? Tragic, really, to have grown up in ignorance. I assume she doesn’t like to talk about it?”

“Much too painful, yes.”

“Should I gossip?” Theo raises his eyebrows.

“Hints about her tear-jerker of a back-story? Oh yes.” Draco nods. “As often and too as many people as you can without seeming suspicious.”

“To the Dark Lady, then?” Theo raises his bottle towards his friend.

“I wouldn’t call her that in public. After the last one, dark anything is going to send people running scared.” 

“Then, to our fair heroine, political crusader.” Draco lifts his glass as well, and both men drink.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo steps inside Hermione’s flat, which, as Draco has still failed to convince her of the value of moving to his much larger one, is still the same ratty walk-up. The only real virtue of the place is the light, which spills in from windows on every side as well as from some filthy skylights. The room is barren, almost no furniture, certainly no decorations. Books stack up against the walls. It looks like nothing so much as the temporary home of a graduate student at university. “This,” he says, “is not what I would have expected from the headquarters of a new, dark movement.”

“I’m not going to waste the inner circle’s time with pointless pomp. You’re in this, or not, and filling the room in overdone symbolism isn’t going to change that.” Hermione has draped herself, quite unceremoniously, over a worn armchair in the center of the room with her feet dangling over one arm and her head propped on the other armrest. She looks like an heiress, careless and idle. If her fingers held a wine glass, the illusion of decadence would be complete. Instead, however, she’s holding a wand that’s pointed steadily at Theo. “I understand you seem to think your contribution would be somehow valuable here.”

Draco has positioned himself off to the side. He’s watching, curious how she plans to handle this, how Theo will manage this more dangerous version of the girl he’d casually despised on principle when they were children. Trained in the harsh world of dark politics, the man neither grovels nor postures. “I understand you have plans to rid of us these meddling fools, restore what is ours.”

She nods, swings her feet around so she’s seated upright, leans forward. “I assume Draco has filled you in on the rough outline as it exists?” At Theo’s nod, she continues, “So, here’s how this will work. You’ll give me your wand while I pick through your brain. If you aren’t interesting or useful to me, I’ll obliviate you and send you on your way. If you’re actually treacherous, I’ll leave you drooling at St. Mungo’s with just enough wit left to know what happened to you. If you pass the test, I’ll put an itty-bitty spell in your brain so, should you decide to embrace treachery later, I have an off switch. For you.”

Draco moves sharply, and she smiles at him. “Some of the books you brought me on legilimancy were _very _interesting, especially when combined with things from the archive at work.” Then she smiles and looks less like a woman threatening death and more like a child caught stealing cookies by an indulgent parent. “Though, I admit I haven’t actually tested it. It might not work.”

“Does Draco have an off switch in his head?” Theo asks, pulling his wand out, turning it around and holding it out to her.

“I have other ways of handling Draco.” She takes the wand and gestures with it towards the floor, where the man gracefully kneels before her and unflinching even when she holds his face and looks into his eyes, into his brain. She’s so quiet when she’s concentrating; Draco hadn’t noticed that she needed to focus this much when she waltzed into his head and wonders whether that means she doesn’t need to concentrate until she’s all the way in or whether he’s just that much of an open book to her. A fly is buzzing at the window, trying to escape through impenetrable glass, and the sound seems loud in the fraught room. Draco watches his best friend kneeling on the floor, letting his very self be turned inside out, like pockets before the wash. Someone needs to kill that damned fly, and why is this taking so long?

She pulls back, takes Theo’s wand, and shoves it, hard, into his neck, assessing him. Then, she flips it around, stands, and holds it back to him.

“Take your wand, Theodore Nott, and wield it for Our aims, in defense of your Lady and for your own honor, as need be.”

“Until death, Lady,” he murmurs, taking it back from her.

“Which,” she says drily, ritualistic formality tossed away, “is what we’ll all get if we screw this up. So let’s not, shall we?” She looks, clearly irritated, at the window. “Will one of you kill that damn fly?”

Theo flicks his wand, just the tiniest of movements, a thread of green light attacks the fly, and the room is silent. 

“Impressive.” 

“I’m the son of a Death Eater and had the dubious pleasure of learning from the Carrows. You’ll find my technique to be excellent.” Theo rises and bows.

“Beyond excellent. Welcome to our excellent band of, well, ‘brothers’ seems awfully patriarchal, but ‘siblings’ doesn’t quite have the same alliterative ring, does it.”

“Noble company?” suggests Draco, handing each of them a glass of champagne he’s rapidly fetched from the unpleasant kitchen. “I thought perhaps a minor celebration to honor the official first recruit?”

“’We few, we happy few’?” Theo takes his glass and raises it towards Hermione. “To you, and to the steady increase in our numbers, filled with men with stomach for the fight. And women.” He pauses. “This is awkward. What am I supposed to call you?”

She laughs and throws back her glass. “Hermione is fine when we’re being informal or are in public. Save ‘Dark Lady’ for private, formal occasions. Sit,” she waves at both of them, settles herself back into her chair; they all relax, Draco on the floor leaning up against her chair, Theo in a chair of his own. “Now, what to do with you. Any interest in getting a government job?”

“Tricky for the children of Death Eaters,” comments Theo.

“Are you qualified?” She’s running her fingers through Draco’s hair, and he’s leaning back against her hand without visible pride or resistance.

Theo watches the little scene, fascinated. Other ways of handling Draco, indeed. Then, “Certainly, I’m qualified. More than.”

“Research what position you think would suit you best, something believable where you can work your way up, and I’ll ensure you get hired.” At his quizzical look, she adds, “Imperious. I’m such a popular thing, you know, especially with people who want to know the gossip about dear Ronald and his naughty little shoving problem. I’ll have coffee with whoever needs to think you should be given a chance and brought into their department, and by the end of our happy social chat, they’ll be delighted to hire you. Once you’re in, though, you’re on your own. Be competent and start climbing the ladder. Hire people sympathetic to us, even if they aren’t actually part of our company. Position yourself well.”

“That I can manage.”

“Don’t disappoint me.” Her tone lacks any hint of a threat, but Theodore Nott shivers anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Theo both reference the St. Crispin’s Day speech in Henry V. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; / For he today that sheds his blood with me / Shall be my brother;”


	5. Chapter 5

His mother throws the paper in front of him. “What is this?” 

Draco picks up the folded Prophet and glances at the pictures. Ah, they’d finally run the spread; he needed to remember to send a discreet gift to that photographer. 

“Funny, I would have thought you’d be fairly familiar with the society pages.” He sets the paper down and smiles at his mother across her tea table. She’s set it out with enough reminders of the Malfoy heritage he’s surprised it doesn’t collapse from the weight of expectations. You can strip most of the wealth from a woman of privilege, he thinks, but never her sense that meddling in her child’s life is a sacred duty.

“I mean the girl. Explain the girl.”

Draco idly shrugs. “While I’m crushed to destroy your good opinion of me, I find that I am unable to explain women.”

Narcissa Malfoy sets her cup down so vigorously the tea sloshes over the side. “I want you to explain why you are pictured in the paper with _that girl._”

“And here I thought you’d be pleased to see me getting serious about a witch.” He picks up a spoon and measures sugar into his cup. “Last time this subject came up, you castigated me about how I wasn’t doing my duty to the line and that I needed to get on producing an heir with all due haste. I simply took you at your word.” He stirs and smiles at her. 

“She’s... not appropriate.” 

The delicate dodge makes Draco appreciate her tact. Narcissa Malfoy, with her ability to imply a great deal while saying nothing, will tell everyone who matters that her future daughter-in-law is most certainly a welcome addition without ever spelling out what that means. 

“The brightest witch of our age _and _a war heroine?” He admires the photo of Hermione; the simple black dresses he’s been pushing her to wear suits her, balance out that hair, and, as always, she’s got his bracelet on her arm. He likes that she never takes it off. “Beautiful, too.”

“Draco, I understand a young man often has… needs.” Narcissa has her ‘something has gone bad, and I can smell it’ face on. “But a girl you publicly link yourself with should be…” she hesitates.

“Mother,” Draco looks up from the paper and lifts his cup halfway to his mouth before stopping to ask, “Have you ever known a woman who perhaps found herself inconveniently in a family way? A married woman whose hobbies were, perhaps, less acceptable than needlepoint and shopping? Who opted to quietly tuck a little mistake away in the chaos of the first war rather than risk a marriage? Or a younger girl, maybe, whose parents covered up her fall from grace?”

Narcissa frowns at him. “Are you telling me this girl…?”

He takes a cool sip of his sweetened tea. “I’m not telling you anything. We are having a completely unrelated conversation.”

“You understand,” says his mother with great care, “that I am only seeking what is best for you.”

“I’m sure you know I would never associate myself with anyone… unsuitable.” Draco smiles winningly at his mother. “No matter what it might appear on the surface.”

“Perhaps I should meet her,” Narcissa sounds almost pained but, Draco thinks, this is going quite well. An abandoned bastard could hardly be her ideal, but it’s more palatable than the truth.

“Theo quite likes her.”

“Theodore Nott? You’ve introduced her to Theodore Nott?”

“Of course. How many Theos do I know?” He pauses and adds, “You know, mother, that no matter how opaque or serpentine I may seem, my end goals are always what is best for us and ours.” Narcissa nods slowly and picks up the paper again, studying the photographs. 

“How serious are you?”

“Wholly.” Draco picks a piece of lint off of his sleeve; black requires an inordinate amount of wardrobe maintenance. “I’m not sure what timing will be best, but I have every intention of being honorable here.”

“That’s… good.” Narcissa still sounds like she’s being strangled.

“There are some things that because of her -.” He stops as if to weigh his words carefully, though, of course, he’s scripted this whole request in advance “- her _unfortunate_ upbringing that she won’t be able to do without help. Would you consider standing in as a maternal figure and planning out a wedding, something very formal, very traditional?”

Narcissa hesitates. “Won’t her own mother want that honor?”

He snorts. “None of her parents will be attending. People who abandon children lose all right to them, and, as for those others, I will not have muggles at my nuptials. Will not. Period.” Narcissa smiles at his visceral disgust; his reaction assuages any lingering fears she had that this girl might simply be so … accommodating ... that she’s ensnared Draco despite inferior blood, an inferior birth. Still, there are practical considerations.

“Who will give the bride away? If you want traditional, foregoing that is not an option.”

Draco frowns. “As much as I hate the man, Harry Potter might be ideal.” He tunes out his mother’s prattling on about color schemes – obviously green – and flower choices – as if either he or Hermione cares – and wonders if the bloody arsehole can be convinced to publicly condone their relationship that way. It might dispose some of the rapid Potter fans to their cause, not that any of them could be trusted as more than fodder but there’s strength in numbers, and he’ll need numbers when it comes time to march in the streets. Plus, he just likes the symbolism of the wanker many consider the face of the Order giving her away, especially if he's giving her away to him. “Of course,” he says aloud, interrupting his mother’s detailed analysis of caterers, “he’s a half-blood, and I was hoping to keep the wedding pureblood only.”

Narcissa, cut off mid-asparagus as it were, stops and looks at him. “Really?”

“Is that a problem? Is there some half-blood old biddy we can’t afford to offend?”

“Nooooo,” she drawls out her answer and sets aside her brief wedding frenzy like a purse she’d spotted in a store, considered, and then decided wouldn’t be quite right after all. She looks at her son; his eyes hooded, lost in thought, he doesn’t look like a man in love. “Draco. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I need this wedding to establish beyond a doubt that I consider her blood of the first order and that I embrace traditional values. Can you manage that?”

“What are you planning, Draco?”

“A wedding, I thought.”

She looks at him, considering. “Of course. Planning a traditional wedding would be a pleasure, one I’d never thought to have. And I’m always happy to assist you in any way. But… have you asked her what she wants. Women do often have opinions about their wedding.” Draco looks sufficiently nonplussed that Narcissa adds, “Have you even proposed yet?”

“Not formally. I assure you, it’s understood.”

“I think you might want to actually ask her before I start booking caterers. And, Draco - ”

“Yes?”

“You are sometimes very much like your father.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“I don’t know, ‘Mione.” Harry pushes the soft drink back on the table and looks at the woman sitting carefully in the seat of the café. She’s picking at a pastry, leaving it ripped into small pieces but seems too nervous to eat. “It’s hard to wrap my mind around the idea of you dating Draco Malfoy. He’s… I believe you when you say he’s not like his parents. I do. But he was really prejudiced, Hermione, really awful. Can you tell me that your blood status doesn’t matter to him at all? Really? That he’s not using you?”

“What would he be using me for?” 

Harry pushes his glasses back up his nose and stares at his long-time friend. “Sex?”

“You’re making a bit of an assumption.” Hermione snaps, blushing. “Besides,” she mutters, “is it really that impossible that he might just like me for me? Just because Ron thinks I’m not good enough…”

“… Ron was an idiot about that. I told him that then.” 

“Anyway, I asked him about my blood status. Asked him specifically if he could handle it. He said it didn’t matter to him.” She picks off another piece of the scone and crumbles it between her fingers. “Harry, it’s really important to me that you and he make peace between you. I know you hated him for a long time, but could you please find a way to come to some kind of détente.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“Because it is.” She tries for a conciliatory smile. “I’m really happy with him, Harry. I don’t want there to be strife between the two men I adore - ” Harry looks sick at the idea of her adoring Draco, but she presses on “ – just when I’m finally getting my personal life together. You don’t have to go out to the pitch together, or anything. I just really want you to be… not at war with each other. It’s been years; can’t you let it go? For me?”

“I don’t know, Hermione. He was a Death Eater.” She starts to protest, and he interrupts her. “You can tell me until forever that his father made him do it, that he was just a kid, whatever. He took the Mark. He’s responsible for Dumbledore’s death, even if he didn’t cast the curse himself. He was a rotten arsehole for years, and, yeah, maybe he’s figured out blood status isn’t the most important thing in life, but I can’t believe he’s not still a manipulative, vicious bastard. My God, woman, he stood there and watched his aunt torture you. How can you stand to look at him across a table, hold his hand? How can you wear that thing he gave you on your wrist? How can you ask me to make nice with him?”

She starts twisting her bracelet around and around to keep from screaming at him. “I don’t know, Harry. Maybe you could do it just because I asked you, because you care more about me than about your stupid grudge.” Her voice comes out in a low, controlled, furious hiss. “Maybe you could accept him for me because I accepted it when you decided Ron and the Weasleys mattered more to you than I did – no, don’t even try to deny it. I get it, I do. You needed a family. Need a family. And I have never _once_ thrown that in your face before today, though I’m certainly not welcome there, so I’m essentially cut off from you, my best friend, as well as the Weasleys. ‘Maybe if you had been married,’ Molly said to me. Did you know that? I spent years there as a guest, I thought as a surrogate daughter, but it turned out I was only welcome as Ron’s appendage, and once he had had enough of me, well, so had she.”

“It wasn’t like that, Hermione,” he protests.

“Really? Because it sure looked like that to me. And it looked like, when the chips were down, you picked Ron because it was _just_ _too awkward_.” 

“He’s my best mate!” Harry snapped at her.

“And what am I?”

“You’re like the sister I never had,” he mutters. “The estranged, difficult sister.”

The waitress bustles over, and both friends sit, in mutual fury, as she asks meaningless, polite questions about the drink Harry’s not touching, about the scone Hermione has almost totally destroyed. Everything’s fine, they assure her. No, really, just the check when you get a moment. Thank you.

When the woman finally leaves, their money in her hand, Hermione says. “Make it up with Draco, Harry. If you do one thing for me in your entire, bloody adult life, make it up with Draco.”

He shakes his head. “It’s too much to ask. I hate him, Hermione. I hate everything he stood for, everything he stands for.”

“Does it ever bother you?” She reaches out to touch the faint scar that remains on the back of his hand. ‘I must not tell lies.’ 

“What?”

“You don’t like what Draco ‘stands for’?” She makes little air quotes with her fingers. “What do you stand for these days? Parties? Good times? You told the Ministry before Voldemort fell that you wouldn’t be used. When did you change your mind? You were a hero, Harry. Now you’re just a mouthpiece.”

“You have a lot of nerve.” He stands up and slams his napkin on the table.

“I’m begging you, Harry. You owe me….” She grabs at his hand, but he shrugs her off with an angry shake.

“The answer is no.” With that, he walks out of the café.

. . . . . . . . . .

When she walks in the door of her flat, she finds Draco sitting there, reading. She throws her coat down, tosses her wand at him, and stalks towards her bathroom.

“Umm, Hermione?” He looks at the wand in his hand. 

“What? You plan on cursing me with it?” she snaps.

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then just hold on to it. Merlin knows I should bloody well trust you enough for that. I’m taking a bath. A long, hot bubble bath. With a book. And a glass of wine. Maybe two. Sodding bastard. ‘My estranged, difficult sister.’ Nice.” 

“Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” he asks, carefully calm in the wake of her fury, setting the revelation that she trusts him aside as something to think over later.

She stops and turns on him. “No. No, you are not. Why are you in my flat, anyway?”

“I was planning on proposing matrimony, but it can wait if you’re really in this much of a shite mood.”

“I…” she trails off, looking at him.

“You need a glass of wine, which I will fetch you.” He tucks her wand into his pocket. “Go take your bath, read your book. When I’m less afraid you’ll tear me apart, we can talk about what you’d like in a ring and how to time the announcement for maximum impact.”

“Draco - ”

“Yes?”

“Sometimes, I actually like you.”

“That’s good since we’re getting married.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Tell me about traditional pureblood mores.”

Theo leans back against the wall and looks at Hermione. “It’s so easy to forget about your disadvantaged childhood until you ask these questions. How did you survive, anyway?”

The current inner circle sits in Hermione’s flat. These weekly, informal gatherings have become combination parties and planning sessions. “Let’s not harp on my past. How would you describe your own social customs?”

“Conservative.” Draco’s sitting in the only armchair, leaning forward towards the rest of them, all sprawled on the floor, even Hermione. “Education matters. You’re expected to marry young, and well. Women stay home, have babies – sorry, Pans, but it’s true, and you know it – and take up charity work and gardening. They use those social connections to further their husband’s political or business aims.”

Pansy Parkinson is rolling her eyes and mutters, “Some of that is changing, Draco.”

“Only until you’re married,” Theo snorts. “It’s perfectly respectable these days for you to teach, or work in the Ministry, or be a nurse when you’re single, but what will you do when you aren’t, Pans? Keep going into work? Or start running the local gardening club and use that as a backdoor into influence? Take food baskets ‘round, play lady bountiful?”

“Arseholes,” the woman mutters. 

“You should also be discreet, serious, diligent, and in general virtuous,” Blaise adds. “Well, the women are supposed to be virtuous. As long as I’m discreet, I’m good.”

“Charming.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “So, granting that the traditionally powerful families are socially very conservative, how would you describe this?” She tosses the day’s paper in the center of their little group. Ron sits in some gilded bar, surrounded by young women, throwing back a glass of champagne. There’s a cabaret going on behind them, and a dancer shakes her mostly bare breasts at the camera.

“Hot?” asks Blaise and Theo covers a laugh as Pansy glares at them both.

“Disgusting,” Pansy states flatly. “I’m surprised Molly Weasley still allows him into the family home, to be completely honest. He’s a disgrace. Sorry, Hermione, I know you had a thing for him.”

“Had is right. Past tense,” mutters Draco.

“Is this the limit of it,” Hermione asks.

“Oh, there’s more.” Theo looks at her. “You’d blush to know what happens behind closed doors. Forgive my traditionalism coming out here, but gently bred girls aren’t supposed to know this stuff happens, much less have me delineate it. Not that you’re gently bred, more like raised by wolves, but … suffice to say that it’s not pretty.”

“Plus the ostentation thing,” Draco adds. 

“Exactly,” says Pansy. “That bracelet? That’s _barely_ an appropriate gift with you two not engaged. The only reason it’s acceptable is everyone knows it’s just a matter of time. But Order members are draping women in jewels, furs, what have you. And then they go out into the streets like that with people starving in the shadows.”

“Tossing coins to people whose houses they’ve confiscated,” mutters Theo. 

“I don’t want to touch the war profiteering issues quite yet,” murmurs Hermione. “We’ll get there. I want to prime the hatred and resentment in subtler ways first. Pansy,” she turns to the woman. “Can you get a job as a gossip columnist on your own, or do you need my help? Freelance is fine.”

Pansy shrugs. “My family still has enough cachet, no matter how poor we are now, that it should be easy enough to write a society column.” She’s suddenly formal. “What’s your will, Lady?”

“I want you to pen article after article describing, in lavish detail, the lives of Order members. Don’t lie; you shouldn’t have to. Just put the emphasis on things you know will grate. The women, the parties, the lavish lifestyles. Talk about how they are pleasure seekers, absolved from all responsibility. Grind those themes in until no one thinks of the Order, and certain Ministry officials, as anything but a group of irresponsible hedonists.”

“But,” complains Greg, who has been silent until now, watching the breasts in the photograph, “all those things are true.”

“Of course they are. It wouldn’t be nearly as effective if they weren’t.” Hermione turns to Pansy, who’s smiling the cold smile of understanding. “You tell me you’re surprised Molly Weasley lets Ronald in her home given how he’s living; imagine how a steady flow of this information will affect a rural housewife who can barely feed her children or a laborer who worked hard all his life only to have his farm seized so war heroes can swim in champagne.”

“They’ll hate it.” 

“Exactly. And once the general resentment about their entitled decadence has grown, we’ll start leaking information through other channels about the abuses and seizures and profiteering.” Hermione taps her fingers against the floor, thinking. Also, I may have you do a puff piece about me, including photographs of this flat.”

“This place is a dump,” Pansy mutters. “You don’t even have a television in here.”

“Raised by muggles, remember? I don’t find their technology especially exotic or interesting. Plus, the Ministry licensing fees are outrageous.”

“So that’s why you won’t move in with me,” Draco frowns, a nagging question answered. “This place is a set. You’re staging yourself as Hermione Granger, the only member of the Order of the Phoenix living simply, holding true to older values. The one who wants to make a difference rather than party until dawn.”

She turns and smiles up at him. “Well, that and it’s hard to position ourselves as upholders of traditional mores if we’re living in sin.”

“Have you two set a date yet,” Pansy has pulled out a notebook and is making an outline.

“We aren’t technically engaged, Pans,” Draco leans back into his seat and smirks. “Look at her hand – no ring.”

“Uh-huh.” Pansy doesn’t look up. “If it’s all right with you both, I’d like to schedule a human interest story on Hermione, a ‘where is she now’ kind of thing before you make it official. I’ll be able to drop hints, and then do a second article once you propose. I’d like to shape you two into a grand romance; most people won’t see past her official blood status, and you’ll be a great unification of the post-war world, fences mended, putting aside long-standing prejudices, blah, blah, blah.”

“But you know differently,” Draco looks at her.

Pansy yanks the paper away from Greg and tosses it away. “Stop ogling those tramps. Yes, obviously, Draco. But I’m not interested in telling housewives in the rural north that the romantic male lead we plan to give them is too much of a prat to date their miserable, half-blood daughters. I’m spinning fantasy here, and the mudblood princess angle is too good to resist even if we all know you’d never touch her if she were actually some filthy muggle-born.” She looks up at Hermione. “Assuming that’s all acceptable to you.”

Draco wonders if Pansy notices the way Hermione’s shoulders stiffen, suspects she doesn’t. 

“Of course. I encourage your initiative; do what you need to do to introduce the characters of the various players in this drama, but keep this - ” Hermione waves her hand around the room, indicating the group sprawled about on the floor “ – a secret. No one needs to know about this.”

Pansy nods. “I’ll want the scar in the photos.”

Hermione shrugs. “Not many people come with so convenient a label. Of course we’ll use it.”

Theo raises his hand. 

“Are we supposed to do that?” Greg asks, looking at the other man.

Blaise rolls his eyes. “Honestly, how do you function?”

Theo, the paper turned to an inside article, lifts it above his head. “If I could shut the two of you up, and move us on from Pansy’s little writing assignment, has anyone noticed this?”

Hermione holds her hand out, and he passes her the paper. She skims the headline and frowns. “Well, that’s a wrinkle I hadn’t anticipated.” 

Draco reads over her shoulder. _Harry Potter Explores Run for Minister of Magic. _Well, maybe now she’ll let him off his leash, let him iron that wrinkle out.

“No, Draco.” Hermione doesn’t even look at him. Pansy laughs, a raucous, grating sound, and he glares at her over everyone’s heads. “Greg, I’d like you to recruit Astoria Greengrass. Daphne, too, if you can, but Astoria is the one I really want. Blaise, while we’re adding members, please see if you can lure in Luna Lovegood.”

“I must say,” Blaise stretches out on the floor, leans back on his elbow, and looks across at Hermione. “Joining you certainly has its benefits. Theo and I have good Ministry jobs, and now you’ve ordered Greg to go and enjoy the pleasure of the company of a girl he’s stared at from afar for years.”

“Luna Lovegood?” Greg asks. “Wasn’t she the crazy one?”

“We can’t restrict the inner circle to your little bunch from our year,” Hermione leans back against Draco, who starts to twine a lock of her hair around his finger. “If we want to take over the world, we’re going to need a few more resources. Think of it as a glorious opportunity to meet new people, make new friends.”

“But I already know Astoria,” Greg looks at her. 

“Shut up, mate, before she assigns you Luna, and I get Astoria,” Blaise laughs.

“Theo, if you’d stay behind?” Hermione’s tone is clearly a dismissal, and the rest of the group starts to stand, brush off their clothing. “Pansy, I’ll look forward to reading your work; please coordinate the pieces on me with Draco. Blaise and Greg, let me know when I can schedule a time to meet your new friends.”

“But - ” Greg begins again before Blaise mutters, “Try not to be an idiot, Greg. She knows you know the girl. It’s why she asked you to bring her in. Let’s go,” and yanks the other man out the door. Pansy follows them, laughing at Greg. The paper is still on the floor, open to the article about Harry and an advertisement reminding people that muggle artifact permits can be obtained Mondays thru Thursdays at the Ministry.

“Theo,” Hermione smiles at the man. “You mentioned before we began that you wanted to speak to me in private?” 

She looks back at Draco, who obligingly shrugs and rises. “I’ll go get some take away for dinner.” As the door shuts behind him, he hears Theo start to talk in a low voice, the rustle of papers. When he returns, Hermione looks rather pleased. 

“I’m afraid,” she joins him in the kitchen as Theo leaves and Draco starts to unpack the curry, “that I will not be able to spend quite as much time with you as I’ll be volunteering my time at the orphanage.”

“The Phoenix Memorial Center for War Orphans?” he asks, eyebrows raised. “Do I ask why you have a sudden urge towards charity work? Is this something to do with Potter’s vainglorious ‘exploration’ of whether he’ll run for Minister?”

“Oh, I doubt Harry will be running for Minister, and if he does, it won’t last.” Hermione opens a drawer and sorts through it, looking for a serving spoon. “And, no, you can’t kill him.”

“You spoil all my fun,” he thinks about kissing the back of her neck, wonders how she’d react. “But, really, war orphans?”

“Working with abandoned children strikes me as such an apropos cause, don’t you agree? And if I have other reasons to be there, reasons Theo has brought me, well, time will tell us if they play out the way I want.” She turns and reaches up to him, pulls him down to her. “Remember,” she breathes against his skin, “you can only kill a person once. But public humiliation that catapults us to power? We can savor that over,” she kisses him first on one side of his mouth, “and over,” and then the other, “again.”

He pushes her back against the counter, leans down and into her, his mouth on her skin, enjoying the way she melds her body into his, how easily she fits against him. “Sometimes,” he murmurs, his lips against the side of her neck, “the way your mind works frightens me.”

“Only sometimes?”

“Sometimes, I’m thinking about other things.”

. . . . . . . .

“I don’t understand why you get that magazine. It’s nothing but trash,” the man flips through the mail. “What is it this time? Another detailing of Ginevra Potter’s wardrobe?”

The woman laughs. “Give what those dresses cost, you’d think there’d ‘ve been more fabric, eh?”

“Disgusting, the lot of them. Her, her brother, that whole Phoenix lot.” 

“What about her?” his wife hands him the magazine. Hermione stands in her plain walk-up, bathed in light, smiling shyly at the photographer. The caption reads, “Lost member of the ‘golden trio’ talks about her work with London orphans.”

“What’s she done since the war, anyway? Don’t hear much about her.”

“Says she’s got some low-level job at the Ministry, spends her time volunteering. She’s dating Draco Malfoy; the article hints he plans to propose soon.”

The man makes a harrumphing sound. “So the rest of them go out partying, and she’s stuck pushing papers in a government office, huh? Guess being the muggle-born in that group didn’t work out so hot; figures the Phoenix bastards turned out to be as much’ve rotten bigots as those bleedin’ Death Eaters.” He pauses. “At least she’s dressed decently. Malfoy, huh? Isn’t he one of them poncy sorts?”

The woman shrugs and takes the paper back. “Never seen him. His mum used to come ‘round, make sure all the local crofters kids had the robes and books they needed for school. Right ladylike, she was.”

“We could use more ladylike like that from them’s in charge.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“Humph.” Narcissa looks Hermione over. “He did a decent job on the costuming, but you need a better bag.” She’s sitting at a small table. Draco has dropped Hermione off, kissed his mother, and removed himself with remarkable haste from their company. “She’ll help plan the wedding,” he’d said. “You won’t know how to send the right signals, she’s already agreed. Just figure out whatever details you have to have input into, and then it will be done.” Narcissa does not appear to be interested in weddings, however, so much as examining her future daughter-in-law.

“I beg your pardon?” 

“An ambitious person should always wear good shoes, carry a good bag. Spin.” Narcissa makes a little gesture with her finger and, utterly bemused, Hermione complies and turns in a circle. “Yes, we’ll get you a new bag, but the clothes are a vast improvement.” 

“I’m so glad you approve.” Hermione’s tone is rigorously polite.

“I looked up in old _Prophets_ what you used to wear. That the Weasleys effectively fostered you is more than obvious. Hideous. This,” the woman gestures up, then down, pointing her finger at Hermione’s dress, “is much better. The bracelet is a nice touch. Subtle, good quality. So, do you love my son?”

Hermione smiles, very slowly. “Draco and I are well suited to one another. We understand each other. It is… rare… to find a person who accepts you for who you are.”

“Excellent.” Narcissa frowns. “I was not pleased to see him linked with you. I think you would prefer I be frank with you, yes? Your birth, whether or not my son’s fantastical tale is to be believed, is far below his. You have, of course, done well for yourself in the wizarding world and, I suppose, in these times, I should be pleased he’s found a girl on the winning side of that war who isn’t a mindless tart given over to idiotic pleasures. I understand you volunteer your time at the orphanage?”

“Yes, I do.” Hermione wonders whether this kind of sharp change in topic indicates sloppy thinking or an attempt to unnerve her.

“An excellent occupation for a young woman. A far superior choice than the ones your compatriots have made.”

“I fear, Mrs. Malfoy, if you hope that your son’s connection to me will result in closer bonds with the Order of the Phoenix for your family, that I will have to disappoint you. I am almost wholly estranged from my former friends.”

“An estrangement that shows good sense on your side. When did you learn about your parents?”

“I am afraid I do not understand your question.” Hermione settles down into a chair across from Narcissa, rests her hands in her lap and smiles calmly at the woman questioning her. 

“You aren’t afraid of anything. The last girl he brought me shook the entire time; I thought she might leave a trail of pins falling from her absurd hairdo, she quivered so much. But you, you sit there, bold as brass. Good.” Narcissa nods emphatically. “A Malfoy shouldn’t be afraid. Now, tell me about your parents.”

“My parents have emigrated to Australia. Surely you don’t expect me to repudiate the people I’ve known my whole life?”

Narcissa smiles at the girl. “No. No, I do not. Come,” she stands. “Let us go find you a more suitable bag. That looks like Molly Weasley might have given it to you. Pathetic. Are you sure you are happy to have me plan this wedding? It is unusual for the mother of the groom to have much input, but given your…”

“Yes,” Hermione rises and smiles. “I would be delighted to leave the entire affair in your capable hands if you are willing.”

“I can plan, you know, but you have to pay for it. Anything else would look like he was buying you.”

“Can you keep it simple?”

“Oh yes, a simple garden event. We’ll put white flowers in your hands, something from a stall in the market, no orchids, no exotics. We’ll make sure everyone who attends appreciates your propriety, which will stand out that much more in comparison to your former associates. You don’t want to invite the Weasley’s, do you?” Narcissa suddenly sounds horrified.

“Why do you hate that family so much? You, Draco, all his friends? It’s not the post-war nonsense; Draco hated him at school too.”

“You have to ask this?” Narcissa looks at the woman. “And he told me you were clever. Sit.” She points at the small table, and Hermione tucks her purse over the corner of a chair and lowers herself down again. Narcissa joins her, tapping her fingers furiously on the wood. “Didn’t they take you in, didn’t you spend every holiday there?” Hermione nods, her head tipped to the side as she waits for the woman to explain. “You were effectively fostered by them, and now they’ve rejected you.”

“Well, Ron…” Hermione begins.

“Nonsense.” Narcissa Malfoy snaps. “If you had been fostered in my home, you would have been my daughter; you wouldn’t have been required to maintain a relationship with my son to have a family. I realize, Miss Granger, that you have no idea how to properly comport yourself in our world, but surely even you can see that the Weasleys are unfeeling selfish creatures. They focus only on themselves; they are blind to decency, to obligation. She took you in; she has a responsibility to you. She, they all, betray our world, our heritage, with their continually shortsighted, self-serving choices. Blood traitors, all of them.” The older woman exhales, suddenly, as though exhausted by her brief tirade. “It’s a pity, really, that the old custom of fosterage has all but died out. If it hadn’t, you wouldn’t be sitting in an institution reading to little ones with no families; they’d be in decent homes. Children, Miss Granger, are a treasure beyond price. When we turn our backs on them, consign them to orphanages, reject them from our homes, we poison the roots of our own culture.”

“Explain what you mean by ‘fosterage.’” Hermione has leaned forward and is focusing intently.

“Typically, in the past, if a child were without parents, which happens less now, of course, other than war orphans, that child would be taken in by a family of means, raised in the house as one of their own. Similarly, if you had tenants on your land, you would ensure their children had enough to eat, books for school, and so on. Old ways, old customs. In theory, the Ministry provides all those things now.”

“Not especially well,” Hermione murmurs, thinking of the children she sees.

“No,” Narcissa agrees. “Not especially well.”

“At any rate,” Hermione brushes at her skirt, “regarding the wedding guests, I think things will go more smoothly if we keep it to Draco’s friends, anyone you think suitable, maybe my friend Luna from school.”

“Luna…” Narcissa raises an eyebrow.

“Lovegood. She’s Xenophilius’ daughter.”

“A respectable, if eccentric man. And Harry Potter?”

“No. He will not be attending.” Hermione suddenly smiles at Narcissa, “You will let me choose my own dress, I hope, even as you plan the event?”

“So long as it doesn’t look anything like that wretched purse, yes.”


	7. Chapter 7

She’d asked him to come with her; ‘I need your eyes,’ she’d said. ‘I’m never quite sure what cultural norms are in the wizarding world, what’s considered reasonable.’ He looks around and thinks, whatever reasonable is, this isn’t it. The orphanage is relentlessly institutional and cheerless. Someone has taped pages ripped from a children’s book onto the wall, and the yellow duckies and smiling pigs somehow make the place even sadder; a horse picture hangs askew, and he has to fight the urge to go over and stick it back up. “How many children live here,” he asks after a few minutes, his voice carefully neutral. 

“Twenty-three.”

“You read to them?” He’s not sure how that’s possible; the room has no bookshelves, no books. The floor is painted concrete, there are, he counts, fifteen chairs around tables, a bin of toys sits in one corner. He’s willing to bet the toys are wretched cast-offs. His own nursery, he remembers, had looked like a shop had thrown up in it, the result of an over-indulgent mother with no budget. 

“I do..hat and also help with some administrative tasks. Draco,” she turns to him, dark eyes troubled. “Is this as bad as I think it is?”

“I don’t know how bad you think this is.” He looks out the window to a fenced yard. Children kick a ball in the dirt; an older girl has herded some toddlers into a corner and is standing watch over them. They all look thin to him. He’s fairly sure his mother would have thrown out every single thing they were wearing. 

“I want your opinion, uncoloured by mine.”

“This is… this is unacceptable. Magical children should not be living like this. I’m not even sure if muggle children should be living like this. I thought this place had funding.” He walks over to the toy bin, picks up a stuffed bear that’s worn and sticky. He hadn’t known stuffed toys could get sticky. “This is disgusting.” 

“Can you get your photographer friend from the Prophet to come in here, take pictures in secret?” Hermione asks. “And will he sit on them until I tell him to run them?”

“He’s not my friend,” Draco says absently, watching the children play in the dirt, “but yes.” If he has to imperious the man, she’ll get her pictures. 

Later, at lunch, he explodes. “How is it still that bad if you are there several times a week? What is going _on_, Hermione? What do you and Theo know?”

“A lot of money goes into that place,” she says, handing her menu back to the waiter with a polite smile. “It’s very well funded.”

“Bollocks.”

“But it is. The money goes in, Draco. Actually, as far as I can tell, even more money goes in than the official funding explains. I’m trying to discover where it goes.”

“They’re laundering money.” He looks at her flatly. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not. I’ve found the books documenting all the income, but it’s not clear where it’s coming from, and I can’t find the expense ledgers. I’ve made copies of what I have found, but…”

“Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Be careful. Promise me you’re being careful.” He reaches across the table and takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers. “I mean it, Hermione. Go slowly. If you get caught…it would be bad.”

She shakes her head at him, “I’ll be fine; don’t worry about me.” 

“I do, don’t be daft. Of course I do.” He looks at her, willing her to listen to him. “You have a history of insane bravery, and it’s gotten you hurt before. If you were hurt again, I don’t know what … just - just humor my selfishness, promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Why, Drakey, I didn’t know you cared,” she bats her eyes at him, and he drops her hand in disgust. 

“The things you don’t know, you bloody cow, would astonish you.” He glares at her, and she flushes, then takes a sip of her water. “I’m still waiting for that promise.”

“I’ll be careful.” She looks at him, and he raises his eyebrows and drums his fingers on the table. “Fine, I _promise_.”

“Good.”

“Draco,” she hesitates. “I need to talk about something else. I’m... relieved that that environment is not considered, um, acceptable in the wizarding world. I have something somewhat related I want you to research for me, an idea I got from talking to your mother.”

He raises his eyebrows, pulls a piece of bread from the basket. “What?”

“Changelings.”

“Changelings? Explain.”

“It’s a tradition in folklore, fairies stealing away babies and leaving behind, well, different things but generally some kind of fetch that would sicken and die.” She starts to reach down to her bag, he assumes to pull out a book, before he stops her.

“I know what they are, Hermione. I want to know where you’re going, what you need me to figure out.”

“How,” she asks, taking her own piece of bread and staring to butter it, “would we make a similar fetch?”

He bites the inside of his cheek and looks at her. Well. That’s interesting. “How long does it have to survive, what can I make it out of, what does it have to be able to do? What are the parameters? You’re talking about a pretty complicated bit of magic. Dark magic, probably, by the time we get it all solved.”

“Which would be why I’m asking you.”

“I’m flattered, I guess. I still need the specifications.”

“We need to be able to make it indistinguishable from the original, not just similar enough for a cursory inspection but so identical that no muggle technology can tell the difference. It can die fairly quickly, hell, it can be found dead, but has to maintain the illusion until it’s buried. Or cremated, I guess,” she shrugs. 

“Blood magic,” he mutters.

“What?”

“I’m just thinking out loud. The best way to personalize the fetch is going to be to use the blood of the person you’re replacing, even just a few drops. Can I base research on the assumption I can use blood? That you can get a blood sample from the victim?”

“Not a victim,” she smiles at him, “But, yes, you can use a blood sample.”

He looks at her, but she clearly doesn’t intend to explain any further, so he just says, “Could you pass me the butter.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Of the two new members, Astoria arrives first. She looks around, smiles at Blaise, who blows her a kiss, then sits next to Greg, who moves over to give her more space to lean on the wall. 

“I think you all know Astoria,” Hermione sit cross-legged in the chair, Draco has draped himself over one of the chair’s padded arms and is balancing himself, one foot on the floor, arm behind Hermione. 

“Where’s the other one?” asks Theo.

“Daphne and I haven’t had time for our little chat yet. Or do you mean Miss Lovegood?” Hermione looks at him. He’s made his displeasure about trusting an “outsider” more than clear. “Be nice, Theo.”

When Luna does come in, she’s got an armload of red roses and is wearing what looks to be about 3 different sundresses layered on each other. “I brought you these.” She gives one to Theo, who’s moved to within inches of her side and is looking down at her. He closes his hand around the stem and starts an elaborate bow, then swears as a thorn thrusts into his finger. 

“Fuck!” He glares down at the blond who just shrugs and says, “Pretty things have thorns. You should be more careful.”

Blaise, when handed his rose, breaks each thorn off and hands them back to Luna, who smiles at him and blushes. Pansy rolls her eyes and sticks the stem of the rose in her bag. Astoria simply thanks her. Greg mumbles something, then hands his rose to Astoria.

“My love is a red, red rose,” Luna hands the rest to Hermione, who laughs and responds, “That’s newly sprung in June? Or did you just hope to make Theo bleed?”

“I don’t think blood is the problem anymore, not here anyway,” Luna settles down in the center of the circle. 

“It damn well is,” Theo mutters, sucking on his finger.

“So… Luna,” Pansy narrows her eyes. “Why would you want to join us, anyway? This isn’t the flower club. We’re planning on, I don’t know, overthrowing the government and running wild around the halls of power. Not really your thing.”

“Yeah, I thought you were a member of the Order,” Greg mutters. 

“Not really,” Luna smiles at him. “People think I’m strange. They don’t tend to want me to join them.”

“Go figure.”

“Theo,” Hermione warns him.

“Lady,” he mutters acerbically before turning back to the girl. “Why do you want to be here? We’re not your type.”

“I don’t have a type.” She cocks her head to the side. “It’s the vampire thing. The Order has been almost wholly taken over by vampires.” Pansy chokes back a laugh, and Greg looks at Astoria, who shakes her head. Blaise has become fascinated by the laces of his shoe. 

“I… what?” Theo looks at her, then at Draco and mouths, “are you kidding me?”

“So,” Luna smiles at Blaise, “shall we martyr ourselves? Fling ourselves heedless into the bloody meadows and rouse the people to overthrow the tyrant?”

“I was hoping to accomplish this sans martyrdom,” Hermione raises her eyebrows.

“You won’t, though.”

“Anyway,” Hermione says, commanding attention. “Luna is going to be working on a long term side project with Theo. Tonight, however, is really just a chance to get to know both her and Astoria, to welcome them to our merry band. Neither of them are going to be at most meetings, so enjoy this time, but, as the saying goes, don’t get attached. There’s wine in the kitchen.”

. . . . . . . . . .

They’re washing up, and Hermione has her hands plunged into the water when Theo says, “I don’t trust her.”

“Astoria?” 

“No, the other one. She’s too batty to be reliable.” He leans up against the counter and with a flick of his wand, finishes the dishes. “Would you stop that mindless chore and listen to me.”

“It’s soothing.” Hermione turns to him, hands dripping as she reaches for a towel. 

“Have Draco soothe you; you shouldn’t be doing dishes like some muggle.” Theo shakes his head. “She’s unstable. Did she really pass the examination?”

Hermione hesitates. “She… her mind is hard to read. It wanders.”

“Color me unsurprised. Don’t let sentiment weaken you, Hermione. You want one of your old friends to join you, some connection to the past. You’re not going to get it. If you’re the _Dark Lady_, former warriors for the light aren’t going to sign on. They’re just not.” 

“And you’re prejudiced against her.”

“Lady.” Theo drops to his knees in the kitchen.

“So you’re being formal?” This was, she thought with some annoyance, one of the downsides of the vaguely feudal title; clever would-be vassals could exploit the implied relationship, and Theo was nothing if not clever.

“If I have to prostrate myself and lick your feet to get you to listen, that’s what I’ll do, so, yes, I’m being formal. She’s a liability. I’m begging you, Lady, to get rid of her, or at least limit her access. Don’t trust her. Use her if you have to, but don’t let her know what you’re doing.”

“No one knows all of what I’m doing except maybe you and Draco, and I doubt even you see all the threads.” She shakes her head. “Get up, Theo. The floor is filthy after tonight’s little gathering, and I don’t get off on literally having my boots licked.” He stays stubbornly on his knees, and she swears. “Get up.” 

“Not until I know you’re listening to me.”

“You don’t do subordinate well.”

“A strange thing to say to a man on his knees.” He looks up at her. “And if you wanted a mindless underling, you should have asked Greg to stay late, not me. In private, you get my real opinions, not flattery. She’s dangerous. She’s fixated on her delusions – vampires, my arse – and weird poetic gestures. She’s – “

“She’s a woman with access to private printing presses, Theo. She has the know-how and the technical capability to run off enough pamphlets to send one to every potential conservative in England. When it’s time for your little research project to come to light, we’ll need a more reliable way to get that information into every home than Pansy’s society pages or the _Daily Prophet_.” She looks down at him. “Now get up.”

“Let me look into other options. Please.”

She closes her eyes and inhales sharply before she sighs and looks at him with resignation. “Fine. Go forth and look into other printing options. Now _get up_.” 

“Thank you, Lady.” He takes the towel from her hands as he gets up and makes one of his courtly bows over her hand, eyes on hers. “I live to serve.”

“I swear, you live to be a torment,” she mutters.

“I live to see your goals, _our goals_, come to fruition. And that… fruitcake … is a mistake.”

“He’s got a point.” Draco has been silent until now, standing in the doorway. “She’s dotty, always has been. We said from the beginning – you said – that the inner circle had to be absolutely trustworthy and she’s just not. Greg may be an idiot, but he’d die for this. She wouldn’t.”

“Don’t insult Greg; he may be a hammer to your scalpel, but you will not insult any of our core group. Will not. And I’m not having this argument over the sink.” Hermione stalks back to the living room and throws herself into the chair. “Actually, I’m not having this argument.”

“Because we’re right,” Draco follows her, “and you’re much too clever to argue with two people who are both right.”

“I will - hand me that book – accede to Theo’s request and keep her isolated. And if you should find another private printing option, I will be open to it. But – “

Theo hands her the book with both hands. “_Principles of Accounting_? Scintillating.”

“ – you can’t have them back, Hermione.” There are times Draco finds the lack of other chairs in the room really irritating, and this is one of them. He can stand in front of her, like a petitioner, or sit at her feet, but he can’t just pull a chair up and try to force the interaction as equals. “The trio, your little resistance group, it’s all gone. You aren’t a sweet, little schoolgirl anymore, and this isn’t a simple battle against an obvious villain. This is revolution, and you’re going to get your hands dirty, and none of those people, none of those great and good people who you loved when you were twelve, see in shades of grey. They aren’t going to play, not this game, and if you would just open your eyes, you’d know that. Who else would you try to pull in? Neville?”

“Too in love with nobility,” she snorts. 

“Exactly. Potter?” he persists.

“Harry wasn’t interested.”

“You asked _Harry Potter _to help you overthrow the Ministry.” Theo starts to laugh. “That was an…interesting idea if by ‘interesting’ you mean ‘daft.’ What did he say?”

“I suppose ‘recoiled in horror’ might sound a bit dramatic, but it’s probably a pretty good description of his response. I obliviated him, of course.” She frowns. “I wonder if some fragment of a memory of that is what triggered his desire to run for office. I wish he wasn’t doing that, he’s forcing my hand.”

“Hermione, Lady,” Draco settles on sitting in front of her. “You can’t have them back, not in the inner circle. They may support you – anyone who sees that orphanage should condemn the Order, and not just because it’s filled with blood-sucking parasites - ” 

“Though, metaphorically speaking, it is,” Theo interjects, then looks at the roses Luna left, still in a pile on the floor, and murmurs, “_My love is a red, red rose_. Just - bugger me.”

“Not tonight, I’ve got a headache,” Draco quips.

Theo snorts and points at the roses. “She’s not quite as insane as I thought.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was a bloody metaphor. She was being convoluted, not insane, the dotty bitch. And Blaise gave her back the thorns from his and then they left together and -.” Theo starts to sputter.

“Why does that bother you?” Hermione looks down at her accounting textbook. “Greg and Astoria are probably off doing the same thing. At least I hope they are. I’d like to encourage Greg’s little tendre.”

“Why?” Draco looks at her, then shakes his head. “Never mind, I probably don’t want to know.” He sighs and leans his shoulder up against the chair. “Metaphor or wholly insane, I still don’t trust her. I think you’re blinded by your history with her, just like you are with Potter.” 

“I’m taking care of Harry.” She reaches one hand down, and he reaches up and takes it, idly twines his fingers in and around hers.

“I wish you’d let me just kill him. Or at least hurt him. Think of it as a present to me,” he wheedles.

“Cultivate patience, Draco. It’s a virtue.” She looks up at Theo. “You’re still here?”

“Have you taken my counsel, Lady?”

“I have.”

“Then, with your gracious permission, I’m gone.” And he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “My love is like a red, red rose / That’s newly sprung in June” from A Red Red Rose by Robert Burns. The actual poem uses a simile, but I needed a metaphor, so Luna misquotes.


	8. Chapter 8

“Are you sure,” Hermione asks Astoria. “It’s a lifelong sacrifice.” She glances at Greg, who’s standing slightly behind the beautiful woman, head down, staring at his feet. “And you’ll be condemned, you know, as a wanton and a homewrecker.”

Astoria juts her chin out, jaw set. “I’m sure. I stand with you, Lady. You are bringing light back to your world. Hope back to our people. Don’t deny me this.”

“And you, Greg? It’s a grand romantic gesture, certainly, but you’ll spend your whole life in the fallout.”

Without looking up, he says, swallowing hard, “I’m not a smart man, Lady. I’m not perceptive, or clever, or wise. You can’t use me to hold down a corner of the Ministry for you, I can’t design strategy, I can’t even write. I want to help you eliminate the mudblood loving Order, I do, and I know I’m not… but I can do this.”

“Do you love her,” Hermione asks, gently. “I can’t let you be her salvation in this if you don’t, no matter how loyal I know that you are.”

“I do,” he whispers.

“Astoria, are you sure you can do it? He has to remember, and the pregnancy has to take.”

The woman smiles, “I’m sure.”

“Very well, then.” Hermione steps forward and puts her hand on Astoria’s cheek. “You are my loyal servant. Know that you have earned my pleasure and gratitude, and, when we have won, you shall be rewarded. Greg.” The man looks up, a fanatic’s gleam in his eyes. “You as well. Your faithfulness and devotion serve me well.”

She steps back, “Go, both of you. I look forward to news of your success.”

The pair leave the flat, watched not just by Hermione but also by a pair of cool, grey eyes.

“You’ve turned her into a whore, him into a cuckold, and they’re thanking you for the privilege.” Draco turns to Hermione after they’ve left. “You use your favorites hard.”

She throws herself back down into her chair, head thrown back and eyes hard. Without looking at him, she starts to pick her hair out of a tight crown of braids, starts taking off what he thinks of as her ‘dark lady’ costume. He suspects she really misses tatty jumpers and trainers. Soon her hair will be down, her shoes off, and she’ll dismiss him, her not quite fiancé. “I use you worse than any of them.” Her tone mocks him even as it simmers with self-loathing. “Engaged to a filthy mudblood, how can you stand it, being a mudblood lover? How does it feel, tainting yourself with me? Do you ever wonder if the end goal is worth the contamination?”

“That’s not fair,” he looks at her. “I have never, not once, mentioned your blood status since we started this. You know why? Because it doesn’t fucking matter to me. Maybe it did when I was twelve, but things change. I’m an adult who’s been through hell and who’s bloody well capable of appreciating your talents. Has it ever occurred to you that - ”

“Oh yes, well, fine. You can manage to overlook my filthy blood when it suits your ends, Malfoy. So noble of you.” She cuts him off, hurls the words back at him.

“Starting to bother you, the tools we’ve picked? Or do you just not like getting dirt on your hands, so now you’re lashing out at me? That isn’t fair.” His mouth narrows into a thin line, “And we’re on a first-name basis, remember? Is it your goal to insult me on every possible level today?” 

“It’s how all of you think. I’ve known you since you were eleven,  _ Draco _ . I’m not exactly ignorant of your prejudice.”

“When I think of how infuriatingly dense you can be when you want to, and then how much stupider the average person is, I… I swear, Hermione, right now I’m considering whether I’d live through slapping you, and even if I didn’t whether it’d be worth it. Yes,” he runs his hand through his hair and glares at her, “you are not what my family would have wanted for me, you know that, and I’m sure even if you hadn’t before my mother made it uncomfortably clear when you two met. And, yes, I considered your birth inferior for many years, but you might – might - consider doing me the courtesy of believing that I am capable of changing my opinions. Have you missed that I think you’re brilliant and beautiful and dangerous and fascinating? Really? Have you missed that you might as well bloody own me? At what point did you stop paying attention to - ” 

“I haven’t missed what you all think of my type, that I’m beneath you all, worthless, filthy - ”

“I… if you do not stop talking about yourself like this, I am going to - ”

“Do what? Deny it again? It’s what you all think.” She’s almost screaming now, all the tension of cultivating the blood issues erupting out of her.

“We did this on purpose,” he hisses, stalking towards her. “You and I set this game in motion with every intention of using their prejudice, and it’s working, and I’m sorry some of your closest followers are ignorant fools, and I’m sorry every idle slur they make hurts you. I truly am. But do not  _ dare _ assume that I am the unthinking bigot Greg is.” He grabs her chin, glares at her. “You’ve rummaged through every mind in the Company except mine. You want to know what I think of you, want to truly know? Stop telling me I despise you and actually check. Why hold back, madam?” He searches her eyes even as he grips harder. “You know how to pick through my brain like a bag of penny candy. Do it.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Good. Do it.”

“What makes you think I even care enough to want to know?”

“I’d never have thought you’d be such a coward,” he taunts, goading her. “Are you afraid to discover I’m telling the truth when I say I bloody well adore you or is what you’re afraid of that I’m just using you?” And then she’s in. He can feel her furiously push through the entry into his mind, feel the scraping pain as she forces her way from one emotion, one thought, to another. Sorting, discarding, looking for proof of his lack of regard. It occurs to him that pushing her into this, however angry he may have been, however unbelievably furious she’d made him, was a very bad idea indeed and that’s when he starts to wonder if he’s going to survive this intact; he’s never noticed anyone else so much as flinch when she enters their heads, but she’s ripping him into tiny pieces, and they float away on the wind. _ I float away _ , he thinks,  _ like a butterfly. Like dandelion fluff. _ Floaty. Everything’s so bright and pretty. He’s never noticed that her floor is so soft. That’s nice. It’s good to have a soft floor. 

At some point, he realizes his forehead is pressed to the floor and that it’s not soft. It is, in fact, rather hard, and his head is pounding. On the other hand, he’s in one piece again, and his thoughts are his own, and he’s not floating away anymore, so there’s that. “You told me,” he breathes through the pain, “on our first date that I belonged to you. Wish you’d listened to yourself, spared me this. Brightest witch of our age and all.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be sorry.” He struggles to sit up, then changes his mind and just shifts, so he’s lying on his side, cheek rather than forehead pressed into the hardwood. “’s’okay. I’m yours to destroy. I would prefer,” he shudders, “ if you didn’t do that again, though. Please.” Things look really interesting from this angle, he thinks. There’s more dust under that armchair than he’d realized, along with a sock. Why, he wonders, do socks always seem to separate? Why would a sock want to hide away under a chair, anyway? It’s a nice chair, he’s always thought, and being the only one in the room manages to imply ‘throne.’ Still, he should nag her to clean that dust up. Dark queens aren’t supposed to live in dusty flats with mismatched socks. Doesn’t fit the image. He tries to pick his head up again, which is a terrible idea except that suddenly there’s a lap under his head and Hermione’s fingers are stroking his forehead, and that’s actually quite lovely. He wishes she liked him for more than his plotting. It would be nice to be valued for more than blood, more than guile.

“Pick your head up, just a tad,” she’s whispering, and she’s supporting him and holding a glass to his lips. “Drink it.” When he does, because when dark ladies hold things to your mouth and bid you drink, that’s what you do, the fog that has settled around him burns away, taking most of the pain with it. 

With clarity comes the realization that, yes, he really is lying on the floor with his head in Hermione’s lap. “Bitch,” he mutters. “That really bloody hurt.”

“Don’t move, it might get bad again.” She’s put the glass down and is stroking his hair again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? For being so uncivil as to practically  _ torture _ me to determine whether I was truthful? Couldn’t you have just, I don’t know, done whatever it is you do to everyone else instead of shredding me? Merlin, I’m in pieces all over your floor.” He pauses. “There’s a sock under your chair.” They’re silent for a while, and then he adds, grudgingly, “Thank you for the pain medication.”

“It wasn’t my intention to harm you. I don’t,” she hesitates. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why it was different. It shouldn’t have felt like anything, I wasn’t trying to make it hurt.”

“I guess I really am your favorite. Lucky me.”

“You are,” she’s still stroking his hair, and he thinks he should tell her to stop, that she can’t simply pet away what she’d done, but as that would involve moving out of her lap he just lets himself feel her hand, slowly running through his hair, stroking his forehead. “I -” she’s groping for words, “it’s awful to hear them, you know. ‘You’d never touch her if she really were a filthy mudblood.’”

“It’s what we counted on,” he mutters into her leg. 

“I know.” Her hand stops, and he moves to sit up. “It’s still hard to hear over and over again and not think, ‘Well, it’s how they all think, it’s how he thinks, he’s just swallowing his disgust to get the job done.’ I didn’t want to get attached to someone who just… who hates me, whose skin crawls at having to touch me.”

He pulls himself over to her, lowers his head, very carefully, onto the top of her hair, breathes in the smell of her. “I assure you, I enjoy every moment I spend in your company. Almost every moment,” he corrects himself. “I didn’t especially care for the last 15 minutes or so.”

“I…” she’s twining her hands in her lap, and he puts one hand over them, stopping the movement. “I’m so sorry. I… this… can you forgive me?”

“Just, promise me you won’t do it again.” He pulls her, then, into his lap, and she slumps back against him, sad and guilty. “Hey.” He wraps his arms around her, “It’s okay. I’m okay. Just… not again. Ever.”

“I promise,” she whispers.

“I don’t even especially mind belonging to you most of the time,” he closes his eyes and just breathes for a bit, savoring not being in pain, savoring the feel of her leaning against his chest. Finally, he adds, “Just… try to take better care of your toys.”

“You’re not my toy.”

“Your tool, then, so very useful in planning political coups.” He hates how bitter he sounds. “Your favorite.”

“Draco…"

“Tell me,” he asks, “do I have any secrets left?”

“I’m sure.”

“Any secrets left about my opinion of you, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“And?”

“I don’t know, Draco.”

“It’s not the same for you, is it?” He masters his voice with rigorous, careful control. 

“I don’t know what it is for me. I… you  _ hated _ me. That’s not something that just gets magically wiped away, and,” her own voice catches a little, “and I  _ hurt _ you. How can you still - ”

He cuts her off. “I just do. A sentiment against my better judgment, I assure you. My admiration for you, on every level, might have been bestowed unwillingly, but you should certainly believe me after what just happened when I tell you it’s sincere.”

“You could try repressing your feelings,” she mutters.

“I have.”

“Try harder.”

“Can’t.”

“Then what do we do now?”

“We’re getting married, Hermione. Is it so awful to contemplate having a husband who -” he breaks off. “Who thinks well of you? I know… I know that after whatever happened with your friends, you’re convinced you’re the one everyone will abandon, the one no one will stand by, but that’s not going to happen. Personal loyalty is one of my very few good qualities, you know. Did you miss, while rummaging through my head, that the world could be ashes at my feet, and I wouldn’t leave?”

“No,” she whispers. “That was not unclear. I just – “

He puts his hand under her chin, turns her face up to him. “Do I get anything for the remarkable grace with which I’ve tolerated your running roughshod over my brain, Lady?”

“I… what do you want?”

He lowers his mouth to hers, murmuring, “Just you. I just want you.” She’s tense, frozen in place, and he pulls back and looks at her. “Wait.” He sets her to the side, fetches his jacket, pulls out the small box he’s been carting around since he’s picked it up. “Hermione,” he squats down in front of her. “Look at me.” 

“This was supposed to be public. Orchestrated,” she mutters. “The final proof I’m a wretched pureblood, or that romance conquers all, depending on your perspective.”

“I want to do something in all of this just for me, I want this to be private, just between up.” He stops to inhale. He’s so bloody nervous he’s almost shaking. “Marry me, Hermione. And not so we can take over the world, though I look forward to seeing it at your feet. Marry me because you want me in your life, at your side. Marry me because you like me for more than the guile.” He’s searching her eyes. “And if you don’t like me, don’t want me, we’ll find another way to do the rest. Don’t let this be nothing but schemes. Be generous enough, please, to let me have one honest thing.”

She looks at him for a long time, so long his thighs ache from squatting, so long he starts to think he can hear his own heart and that the sound of their breathing seems terribly loud. Finally, she holds her hand out towards him.

“Are you sure?” he whispers. “Let me hear the words.”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure.”

He closes his eyes, lowers himself down to his knees, and she puts the extended hand on his cheek. She’s brushing the water away from his cheek, and he turns to kiss her palm, hold her hand to his mouth. “Say it again.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me you want me,” he whispers.

“I want you.”

“Tell me - ” he pauses. “Tell me you like me.”

“I,” she stumbles over the words. “I find that I cannot be happy without you. You’re … I’m not blind to your faults. You’re arrogant and condescending, but - when I see something I want to share it with you, to catch your eye and see you smile at me, or get outraged and – you’re just - you’ve become some essential part of me. I didn’t… didn’t want – I thought you still despised me, and I would touch you and think, ‘I can’t have this,’ and it was like a knife and … yes. Yes, I like you.”

He leans his forehead in until it touches hers and sits there, breathing, eyes closed. Finally, he slips the ring on her hand.


	9. Chapter 9

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Hermione’s resting her head in Draco’s lap, and he’s twining curls about his fingers, one at a time. He’s grown to really like her flat, despite the lack of furniture. There are, he thinks, many worse places to be than propping himself up against the one overstuffed chair, this woman lying on him, bathed in light from the many windows. 

“I like you?”

“I actually already knew that. Try again.”

“I’m an elitist prick?”

“Knew that too. You’re not very good at this game.”

“Oh, a challenge is it, pretty witch.” He tugs on her hair, and she makes a fake pout. He’s silent for a moment, then says, very quietly, “I was terrified of Tom Riddle. Absolutely terrified. I was so numb by the end I couldn’t even feel relief he was dead. All I thought was, ‘Even prison won’t be as bad as this has been.’”

She’s looking up into eyes, grey and shuttered against memories. “Why again, then?”

“Oh, you,” he blinks away the past. “You’re different. Riddle cheerfully tortured people who showed up late to meetings. You aren’t evil or insane. Plus, no snakes. I also really dislike large snakes.”

“Snakes? You?”

“Watch a snake eat a person and see how you feel about them after that.”

“Fair point.”

“Also,” he bends down and brushes his lips over her forehead, “as I think I mentioned earlier, I like you.” She reaches a hand towards him, running her fingers over the edge of his jaw. He turns to kiss those fingers then, groaning, wraps his arms around her and pulls her up. “You,” he says, “may be the most interesting woman I’ve met.” He runs his tongue around her lips, slips it between them as she parts them under his touch; the kiss begins with the endless tease of two people slowly learning each other, his hands creeping up to support her head, and becomes more and more frantic until she’s writhing against him and gasping for air as he bites down on her lower lip. “Yes,” he mutters, feeling her respond. “You’re definitely interesting.”

Her eyes glazed, pupils dilated, Hermione pulls back and looks at him. “I need to – you have to go,” she stammers. “Go research or something.”

In the street, blood pounding as he grimly heads out to do research as he’s been ordered to do, he runs into another man who’s watched him exit the building, who intercepts him casually. “Pureblood girlfriend, huh?”

“She’s going to kill me before the wedding gets here at this rate,” Draco growls.

The man laughs, then catching Draco’s eye tugs at his bangs, only half ironically, and says, “Tell the Lady people are ready to stand with her.” Then he’s gone and Draco’s staring into the afternoon sun, blinded.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ginny Potter née Weasley walks past Hermione, turns away and pretends not to see her. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco’s settled himself in the back corner of a pub, researching, happily and comfortably alone with dinner on order and a nice pint in front of him when he hears the chair across the table pulled out and looks up at the unwelcome face of Ron Weasley, one of his various women standing behind him.

“She’s frigid, you know.” 

“Your bint?” Draco steeples his fingers together and eyes the woman. Subtlety does not appear to be her forte in either dress or makeup application. “If you say so, though it seems a bit crass to just announce that. Still, not really my problem if your little bird of paradise isn’t all you expected.”

“No, ferret-face. ‘Mione.”

Draco snorts before he can stop himself. Without effort, memories surface; Hermione’s mouth on his, her fingers tangled in his hair, the sight of her with her head thrown back while he places kisses down the line of her neck, the sound of her whimpering his name. All this brings his trademark smirk to the surface, and he looks at Weasley and wonders, not for the first time, what, exactly, is wrong with the man. Frigid? Really? She’s calculating, devious, underhanded, with no respect for rules and has an indifferent willingness to use people along with a terrifying amount of patience but frigid she is not; even without having actually had sex with her – yet - he’s quite sure of that. “I was taught that a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. Not about a lady, certainly. Now, if you’ll excuse me - ” he looks back down at his book.

“What are you doing with her, anyway? She’s just a mu..”

“Take care, Weasley.” Draco doesn’t look up. 

“… muggle-born. And since when did you care about the word ‘mudblood’ anyway?”

“Since I became, shall we say, enamored of Miss Granger. We _are_ adults now, Weasley, at least I am. Been through a war and all that. It changes a person. And, fortunately for me, the lady doesn’t hold the boy’s childish taunts against the man.” He glances back at the woman, who’s starting to look more and more uncomfortable as she stands slightly behind the ginger. “Weasley, if you really are going to insist on joining me, go get your date a chair.”

“She can get her own chair,” he sneers just as the woman says, “No, it’s okay, I have to go to the little girl’s room,” and totters off on her too-high heels.

“Your manners are enchanting.” The dry tone appears to be totally lost on the other man.

“What are you reading?” Ron grabs at the book. “_Advanced Transubstantiation. _What kind of wanker brings a bloody textbook into a pub?”

“Presumably one interested in the subject matter. This is tiresome; get to your point and leave before I call security.”

“Stay away from ‘Mione.”

“I don’t think so.” Draco allows a slow, languorous smile to lift his mouth. “In fact, I think I shall continue not staying away from her for a very long time.”

“She’s not your type!” The redhead narrows his eyes in what must be an attempt to look intimidating. Draco, who’s lived with one Dark Lord and has engaged himself to another, albeit a significantly more attractive one, laughs; the idea that he could be cowed by an aggressive drunk is ludicrous. He studies the man who clearly, mistakenly, thinks they are somehow rivals. After several years of leisure, he’s got the look of someone who’s started to blur around the edges; wealth has not been kind to Ronald Weasley. 

“Brilliant? Beautiful?” Draco leans forward, and Ron stiffens. “Hermione is very much my type.”

“You shouldn’t even have the right to say her name, Death Eater scum that you are,” Ron mutters.

“Oh, but I do,” Draco drawls. “I have the right to say _my fiancé’s_ name as often as I want and to hear her say my name in return, sometimes in some _very_ lovely ways. And,” he makes an elaborate pretense of examining his cuticles, “though you may have forgotten this, I was found not guilty in my trial, forgiven because of my youth.”

Ron Weasley blanches at the word ‘fiancé’ but blusters on. “Bought your way out, more likely.”

“I assure you, had bribery been effective, my father would not have died in prison.” Draco looks up. “Besides, surely you’re not suggesting the Ministry is corruptible? Not our fair leaders.” The neighboring few tables are starting to pay attention to their conversation, and Draco wonders if he can successfully goad the man into hitting him without seeming too obviously antagonistic himself.

“If it makes you feel any better, Weasley,” he continues, “My intentions are, as they say, honorable; I am, after all, marrying your friend. Excuse me, your former friend. She hates you, you know. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me what you did to her; she refuses to discuss the matter. I have my own pet theories, of course, but without confirmation, they’re just, err, limp ideas. Blaise – you know Blaise from school, I assume - suggests you have, how shall I put it, performance problems. Could that be why you resent her so much, why you ended things? Embarrassment? They do have treatments for that, you know. The performance issues, I mean, not the resulting awkwardness.” He leans forward, as though sharing a moment with a friend, pitching his voice to reach the curious onlookers. “Don’t be ashamed, Ronald. It can happen to anyone. I mean, it’s never happened to _me_, but you shouldn’t be afraid to seek out help.”

“I bet the frigid whore hasn’t even let you into her knickers!” Alcohol and frustration have pushed Ronald Weasley away from his original, vague goal and firmly into ‘making a public fool of yourself’ territory. Humph, thinks Draco. You’re so easy to manipulate, no self-control at all. Still, even goaded the man shouldn’t be allowed such leeway. Be careful, Ronald Weasely, he muses. The lady’s hand stays mine right now, but she’ll lift her ban on killing you eventually, soon if you keep this up, and when she does, I plan to make you beg to die.

“Do you know those terms are pretty much mutually exclusive? ‘Frigid’ and ‘whore,’ I mean. Try not to use words if you aren’t wholly sure of their meaning; it makes you look a bit like an idiot. Not to mention, Weasley, while I realize you don’t have a lot of experience with women you don’t have to pay, some women, especially some pureblood girls, tend to hold out for commitment. That doesn’t mean they have the same performance problems you do. And I,” Draco smiles coolly, “have no problem waiting. I’ll get her for a lifetime, after all. Good things come for those who wait, isn’t that the saying?”

“She’s a muggle-born!”

“If you say so,” Draco shrugs. “You seem very hung up on blood status. Why is that?”

“Because I know you must be using her for something! Just because we aren’t close anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still want to protect her from the likes of you!”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Do you usually protect women by calling them whores? You’ve taken to doing that quite a bit and, let me give you just a smidgeon of free advice, rethink that strategy. Between the names you call women and the way you treat your date, well, I’d ask if you were raised in a barn, but I already know the answer.”

“I - ”

“Whatever your tragedy is, Weasley, go and pour it into your ladybird’s ear, not mine. I’m sure if you pay her enough, she’ll pretend to care.” He looks back at his book.

Weasley makes some inarticulate sound and, without looking up, Draco flicks his fingers towards the man, “Shoo.”

That’s when Weasley hits him. 

Draco, who had been watching the man without seeming to as he rose and swung across the table, looks around, blood welling up where his tooth had cut his lip and notes the hush that’s fallen over the pub. “You,” he says, able to be very quiet and know the words will be heard in every corner of the now silent room, “have insulted my fiancé, a woman you and your family abandoned after the war. You have pushed her in the street and left her hurt and crying, now you’ve swung at me after I asked you to leave and, by God, I’d be well within my rights to lay you out flat. But I don’t pound on drunks in bars, so instead, I’ll say this: go back to wallowing in your ill-gotten gains. Consider this a fair warning, though: next time, if you’re stupid enough to provoke a next time, you’ll be the one on the ground in pieces when I’m done. Stay away from Hermione. Stay away from me.” 

Someone starts to clap, then awkwardly stops when no one else joins in. Draco bows in the direction of the sound then signals his waitress. “If you could pack my dinner to go, love, I’d appreciate it.” She scurries off, and Draco touches his lip, looks at the blood on his hand, then at his antagonist, standing there, breathing hard. “Out of breath after one swing, Weasley? Maybe you should consider hitting the gym.”

“I hate you, Malfoy,” the man mutters.

Draco shrugs, an elegant motion. “I’d probably hate you too if I bothered to give you any thought.”

. . . . . . . . .

“So, what do you think of her?” Hermione looks at Blaise across the table where he sits, one hand wrapped around a mug of some foamy drink that might have had a coffee bean waved near it once. Maybe. 

“Personally, aesthetically, or do you mean do I think she’s a liability the way Theo does?”

“How about all of the above.”

He frowns and dips one of the biscotti into his drink. “She’s… she’s downright batty, Hermione. I can’t tell when she’s being cryptic and playing word games for the intellectual pleasure it gives her and when she’s just looking at a different world than the one I’m seeing. I like her, don’t get me wrong. She’s a hellcat in bed – begging your pardon – and she’s bloody gorgeous, but she’s just… off… somehow. If you asked me whether I wanted to date her, I’d say absolutely. Do I want to trust my life to her in a carefully held conspiracy? No. Not really.” 

He sighs and frowns, “I don’t know how much you know about genetics, but – “

“Quite a bit, but assume I know nothing and spell out what you’re thinking.”

“Her family tree, my family tree, all of us, the lines are so tangled in on themselves you’d think you were looking at a Jackson Pollack. If we were breeding dogs, we’d be sure to add in fresh blood. But for ourselves? We’d rather risk disease, infertility, or being flat out crazy than bear the social stigma of marrying a half-blood. You’ve heard Pansy go on and on and on, I’m sure; she’s a bore on the subject. I cannot tell you how much I pity whoever gets saddled with her.” Blaise shakes his head. “You aren’t thinking of trying to pair me up with her the way you’ve pushed Astoria and Greg together, are you?” 

Hermione snorts. “I had a reason for Astoria and Greg and, besides, he was already head over heels for the woman. I like you too much to try to marry you off to a woman you don’t like. I’ll trust you to find your own wife.”

Blaise looks relieved and goes on. “Anyway, enough generations of inbreeding and you end up with the Blacks, who are unstable, the Malfoys, who are almost wholly infertile and so it goes. There’s a reason, you know, that Draco’s an only child and it wasn’t for lack of trying to get the ‘spare’ part of ‘heir and a spare.’ The Lovegoods are just batty; her father was batty, Luna’s batty. As breathtaking as Luna is, I admit I’m slightly afraid if I get too involved one day she’ll decide I’m infested with some imaginary parasite or something and kill me in her attempt at a cure.”

“How would you solve it?” Hermione’s leaned forward and is watching the man intently. “The inbreeding issues, I mean, not Luna. Given the problems with muggle-borns.”

“Personally? I’ll find some nice three-quarter blood girl, someone who isn’t her own second cousin. Sure, the family won’t be listed in official books of the purest of the pure, but our kids will be less likely to die in infancy, and everyone but the highest-handed sticklers will consider them pure-bloods anyway.”

“So, it’s less blood you’re concerned about than…”

“Look, you grew up with muggles.” He interrupts her. “What was it like when you first arrived at Hogwarts?”

“Difficult,” Hermione murmurs.

“Exactly. Didn’t know the customs, didn’t know who any of the players were. You probably didn’t know what makes an acceptable Ostara gift, or why the school downplayed the historical bits of Samhain and made it all about candy. If you hadn’t been such an unbelievable swot, you would have never figured any of it out; most muggle-borns never do. And that’s the problem; you can’t take someone at eleven, throw them into a strange culture, and then expect them to never tell anyone from their ‘real life’ about it. What did you tell your family?”

“I didn’t. I didn’t really talk about school with my,” Hermione hesitates, “parents. And I didn’t have a lot of friends in primary so… spending every holiday with the Weasleys made it easier too.”

Blaise makes a disgusted sound. “I hate those people.”

“More than muggle-borns?”

“You can’t help who your parents were,” he snorts. “But they chose to be blood-traitors. Don’t tell me you liked being their little faux muggle pet? ‘Ooooo, tell us about muggle stuff we don’t understand, and then when we’re bored of you, out with yesterday’s trash you go.’ I’ll bet you good money when the time comes your Ron marries a pureblood; he’ll slum for a hobby, but, just like his muggle-loving father, he’ll marry pure.” Blaise looks up at her. “Now that you qualify, want him back?”

“I could kill you right now,” she offers, and he laughs at her expression. 

“Draco was right, you really do hate him, don’t you?”

“Blaise,” Hermione narrows her eyes at the man, who’s biting off the end of his sodden biscuit. “Why do you hate muggles and muggle-borns?”

“Filthy little bastards are dangerous,” he mumbles around a mouthful of biscotti. “’scuse me.” He swallows. “They’re a risk. Mudbloods, their real loyalties are always going to be to their families, that’s the way people are. The people who put band-aids on your knee when you’re four? Those are the people you love. No one really thinks the muggle brats don’t go home and tell their parents about magic, that’s insane.”

“What about me?” She sips her drink and eyes him. “Do you think my loyalties are to my – parents? They were, after all, the people who raised me.”

“Maybe you would have been at fourteen, or even sixteen. Loyal to them, I mean.” Blaise looks at her seriously. “But you went through a war, Hermione. We’re all different now.” He swallows hard. “Are you questioning my fealty to you? Because I swear - ”

“I know,” she puts her hand across the table, over his. “And I have no concerns about your faithfulness.” She smiles at his relieved exhale. “I’m trying to understand the prejudice, what it stems from. Think about it logically, Blaise. If we don’t bring in fresh genetic material, we’ll die out, inbred to extinction. It’s a problem we need to solve. You tell me you think muggles, muggle-borns, are dangerous to witches?” Hermione allows a trace of disdain to creep into her voice, watches the man carefully. 

“Damn right, they are. Did you know people sometimes _kill_ magical children trying to ‘drive the demons out’? Everyone knew Potter’s family locked him up, thought he was a freak. If they - enough people like them - knew there was a whole world of us? Living right under their noses? It was different when all they had was sticks and rocks and knives; magic was so much more powerful. But now?” Blaise shakes his head. “Every dirty mudblood could be the one whose parents, whose friends, kick off another round of witch hunts.”

“We’ll take it all back, Blaise,” she murmurs. “I promise. I’ll make the world ours again, and I’ll make it safe for us. Power is ours to wield, after all, and we shall not be denied. Not by money-grubbing blood traitors, not by the Ministry.”

“Lady,” his tone is low, circumspect. “I am your grateful servant.”

She smiles at him as he leaves, but, truthfully, Hermione occasionally wonders if some of her freshly minted vassals were over-exposed to medieval romances as children. They seem to revel in feudal niceties; if she’s not careful, they’ll be asking for formal fiefs when she seizes – well, re-seizes - their childhood estates instead of being happy with simple possession. The Nimue metaphor seems more and more apt as time passes, but she hopes no one expects her to start lobbing swords at them from ponds. She reaches over and takes the rest of the biscotti and dunks it into her tea. Still, “Lady” does have an awfully nice ring to it. She thinks about Ginny, sashaying by on the street and refusing to so much as say ‘hullo.’ “Dark Lady” has an even nicer ring; no wonder the mad fool had liked his title so much. Patience, she cautions herself. As you’ve told Draco, it’s a virtue, and everything will come to you in time, including Ginny’s head on a platter if you decide you want it there. First, we discredit a few politicians and get fairly elected, then we remake society. 

. . . . . . . .

“Bingo.” Theo looks at the meticulous notes in the folder. That people are stupid enough to document their sins amazes him, but he’d known he’d find proof eventually. He pulls out the muggle camera Hermione had given him and begins to take neat photos of every page, one at a time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I am my own fourth cousin.
> 
> A tip of the hat to Casablanca, which Draco loosely quotes. ““You despise me, don’t you?” “…If I gave you any thought, I probably would.”


	10. Chapter 10

“He hit you?” Hermione looks apoplectic, and Draco laughs and tweaks the paper out of her fingers. There, in the gossip column, a short article details his fight with Weasley. It’s quite nice, actually, describing Weasley as ‘uncouth’ and ‘violent’ while he’s painted as a bit of a chivalric figure. 

“I’m fine, sweet girl. I’ve been beaten far worse.” He wraps his arm around her and tugs her into his side, leans down and kisses her, the brushes his nose against hers and grins. “You wouldn’t believe how hard I had to work to get him to do it, too. I had to actually tell him to ‘shoo’ before he worked up the nerve to do more than bluster.”

“What did he want,” she sounds worried. He pulls back and looks at her. Her eyes are searching him, and he can’t believe this, but she’s nervous about something. 

“He wanted to warn me away from you. I’m Death Eater scum, shouldn’t even say your name and so on. He might as well have copied his words from some melodrama; they weren’t exactly original.” He tucks a stray curl behind her ear. “Why?”

“No reason,” she leans back into him.

“Don’t lie to me, Hermione.” 

“It ended badly, is all.” She’s mumbling into him. “I’m sure he’s got things to say that aren’t very nice.” 

“He’s already called you my mudblood whore. I don’t think it gets much worse.” He tips her chin up. “Hey. I’m yours, remember? No matter what. There’s nothing – absolutely nothing – that Weasley could tell me about you that would change that.” He lowers his mouth back down to hers, murmuring against her skin before he slips his tongue into her parted lips, “If he upsets you this much, I could kill him. It’ll look like an accident, I swear.” Then she’s curved into him as he slowly, lazily explores her mouth, as he reaches behind her and tangles his fingers into her hair and feels her press into him with more urgency, as she becomes more aggressive. 

“Get a room, you two.” Theo walks in and rolls his eyes.

“Who gave him permission to just come and go?” Draco asks, his eyes narrowing.

“I did,” Hermione mutters. “Which was apparently a mistake. Why are you here unannounced, Theodore?”

“I have a present for you.” Theo tosses Hermione a folder and waits for her to pull out the contents. Draco catches his eye and raises an eyebrow, and Theo mouths, “wait.”

Hermione pulls out a stack of 8X10 prints, each a reproduction of a document. She looks at the first one for a long time, then more quickly at the second. Finally, she flips through the whole stack. “This is… really good work. You were careful?”

“Shot them with the muggle camera, printed them from a computer in a muggle flat rented under an assumed name. I bought everything on the black market, and I’ve never used magic in the flat, there’s no way to trace it. It’s as clean a set of copies as one could hope for.”

Draco holds out his hand, and Hermione hands over the pile. Page after page delineates fees skimmed from the muggle artifact division and hidden in the orphanage budget. There’s also lists of seized property and, of all things, government farm contracts. “How does this all fit together,” he asks.

“That’s what we have to figure out,” Hermione smiles at the man. “This is a big piece, though. We know where the extra money is coming from and I bet when we comb through these, we’ll find all sorts of improprieties. Theo, I could kiss you.”

“Kiss my best mate’s fiancé? You want Draco to murder me on the spot or something? And here I was flattering myself that you liked me.” Theo grins at her.

“But what are they  _ doing _ with it?” Draco demands.

“Not food aid,” Theo says archly, and Draco looks at him. “Muggle Artifact Registration fees are supposed to go to feed the poor. In theory, it’s a straight pipeline; people who want muggle tech pay fees and those fees go to help the less fortunate. That’s what they’re skimming from. Makes sense, really. It’s a totally new revenue stream, no built-in safeguards to work around. Instead, some, maybe all, is getting diverted into the orphanage budget.”

“Where it goes into a black hole.”

“Creative accounting.”

“How did you  _ find _ this?” Draco demands.

“Oh,” smiles Hermione, “At first we were looking for proof that post-war property seizures weren’t all legal and then Theo found some vague references to this and so we both started digging.”

“So, that’s why you started volunteering.”

“Exactly. Though I still haven’t found anything nearly as useful as this, I really just stumbled into more problems. This is good work, Theo. I’m really, really pleased with you.”

“You mean you didn’t start out planning to rescue those kids?” 

She shakes her head. “No, but they can’t stay there; it’s a disgrace. What’s power for if not to fix exactly that?”

“Well, you can fix it once you’re in office. Unfortunately, for right now, they stay oppressed. It’s hard to get people riled up in righteous indignation over a problem that’s already solved.” Theo starts gathering up his photographs, slipping them back into the folder. “Now that you two have made it official, by the way, who’s going to walk the bride down the aisle?”

“I don’t know.” Draco’s flung himself down into the chair and sounds frustrated. “I’d thought Harry Potter would be a nice symbolic choice but - ”

“He won’t be attending,” Hermione interjects.

“Right. So, with one set of parents off in Australia...”

“…and estranged.”

“And what with the others not really existing,” Theo adds, putting the folder into his bag, “I can see it’s a tricky problem. Would you - ” 

“What did you say?” Hermione’s voice is low, and the man looks up to see two wands pointed at him. Draco’s is, perhaps, pro forma, but Hermione’s mouth is set in a grim line. Theo reacts immediately to the danger and drops to his knees, bag crashing to his side, his hands held out in a pose of utter and instant submission. He’s a man who’s survived both a Death Eater father and a final, horrible year at school; he knows when to bow to someone’s temper when he’s made a terrible mistake.

“I thought you knew I knew,” he closes his eyes and flinches as she advances on him and shoves her wand into his neck. 

“Knew what?” 

“That,” his voice hitches as he inhales sharply, “that you’re not actually a foundling. That you’re…”

“That I’m what?”

“Exactly what we thought in school,” he whispers. “Please, I thought you knew. I… it doesn’t matter to me. It’s, the blood status, it’s just a tool, just… I put myself in your hands knowing. Lady, please. I’m sorry. Don’t…do I beg for forgiveness? Tell me what you want from me, please.” 

“Who else knows?” She’s walked around him, is lightly tracing her wand across his shoulders, down one arm, under his chin. He can feel the tingle of magic, a line left behind her teasing caress, and he shudders. “Look at me.” 

He opens his eyes, looks up the line of her wand, up into her eyes, bearing down on him relentlessly. “Who else?”

“No one,” he’s caught, a deer trapped by light, and even as he hears his heart echoing in his ears, he repeats himself, “No one. Just me. I knew as soon as Draco told me that he was lying, evading. It was… please… it was,” he closes his eyes again, and she takes her wand and hits him, hard, across the cheek.

“Look at me when you talk.”

“I don’t care,” he finally cries, desperately, looking at her. “Whether you’re a pureblood or…”

“Or a mudblood?” her voice is so very cool. “You, pureblood scion of an impeccable line, don’t care that your Dark Lady springs from the mud? You don’t care that I’m everything you despise? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

He struggles to keep his composure. “I don’t despise you; the Order, yes, the Weasleys, all of them, all their ilk. Yes. But not you. Never you. I thought at first you were a figurehead, that Draco was holding you out as a tool in his own plot, then I came to understand that you’re the one doing this. But I put my life in your hands that first day, and I knew about your background, that the orphan story was just... I knew. Lady, you’re… no one knows but me, I’d swear it. I don’t care who your parents are, I don’t care who your family is. I… you’re… what you’re doing, what you’re planning, it’s what... the storm is coming, a new beginning for our world and you’re the one… please.” He lowers his head so his face presses against her wand, closes his eyes again. 

“He’s telling the truth, Lady.” Draco’s voice is careful and controlled. “He’s known; he just tacitly agreed to the lie because it was a useful tool. I’d vouch for him.”

“How many others,” she spits. “It’s a small circle, do they all know?”

“No.” Draco’s very quiet. “Pansy, Greg, the rest of them, their prejudice is so ingrained they wouldn’t be malleable if they knew. Blaise too. Theo’s the only one who put all the pieces together and saw what we were doing with your blood status. The rest really think you’re some abandoned child, a pearl I found in the gutter. They’re tools. Theo’s,” he pauses. “Theo’s one of us.”

“What makes you different, Theo.” Her wand is digging back into his neck, and he thinks about breathing, trying to steady his breathing. “Why don’t you care?”

“We need a leader, Lady. I’m not,” he looks up at her again, “I’m not twelve anymore, I’m not stupid enough to turn my back on someone because of a childish prejudice. We’re… this thing you are doing… should I say, ‘don’t overthrow the Order because you aren’t the product of nobility?’ I’m not going to spit on our Joan because she’s a fucking peasant. I’m too pragmatic for that. You’re too  _ good _ at this.”

She steps back and looks at him, “Get up.” She’s still snapping the words out, but her wand is out of his neck and maybe – maybe – she’s calming down. He gets up, shakily, but keeps his hands out so she can tell he’s not reaching for a wand.

“Does this mean you’ve decided against killing me?”

“I’m too pragmatic for that,” she raises her eyebrows, and he smiles a little, hearing her turn his words back at him. “’One of us,’ huh?” She flicks a glance back at Draco, who’s putting his wand away. “I guess this means we should redefine the inner circle to just the three of us. Do you have any more secrets tucked away you might want to spill in case next time I actually do hurt you?”

“I… no.”

“I’m sorry,” she puts the wand away. “I have had every reason to believe you, all of you, would spit on me if you knew my actual blood status. That I can only work with people who believe a lie about me is a very odd line to walk.” She’s biting the inside of her lip and runs her hand over the red line that’s blooming on his cheek where she’d hit him. “Would you like me to heal this?”

“No, it’ll be fine.” He puts his hand over hers and brings it, carefully, to his mouth. He puts a chaste kiss on the back of her hand. “My life is in your hands, my hands are yours to use; do not apologize to me for my own mistake. I am my Lady’s humble servant.”

She squints at him, her hand still at his mouth, and finally asks, “Did you all get together and decide on the medieval poetic flair or something?”

Theo drops her hand and steps backwards. “I may have started it. I take it it’s caught on?”

“First Blaise, now you. Next thing I know, Pansy’s going to show up in a bloody hennin.”

“Only if they’re featured in some fashion magazine. But -.” He turns more serious. “The formal address, does it displease you?”

“Why?”

“Why do I ask?”

“No, why did you start it.”

“Because people, our people, respond to poetry. They’re traditional romantics to the point of absurdity. I mean, quills? Really? Candles? Given the chance to bow their heads to a maiden from a storybook, well, more people will respond to that than they will to just another politician. And, I assume, once you get fairly elected, you plan to turn the Minister of Magic position into something more… permanent. Have I erred?” 

“No,” she smiles at him even as she shakes her head and sighs. “You’ve done very well indeed. And you tell me  _ I’m _ good at this. Between the two of you, I could almost just stand about and look pretty while you plotted around me.”

“You did say you encouraged initiative,” Theo looks smug. Then, more seriously, “But you’re a lot more than a figurehead, even if you make a good one.”

“So that’s why.” Draco’s been looking at Theo, thinking. “Not just with the inner circle. You’ve started rumors a new Lady is rising. I had a man stop me on the street, tell me to tell the Lady the people were preparing to stand with her.”

“This is good,” Hermione settles down in Draco’s lap on the chair, and Draco breathes out, shocked at the open affection, but wraps his arms around her and buries his face into the back of her neck. “But, Theo, we need to be very careful. I don’t want the Order showing up on my doorstep, accusing me of being anything other than a simple Ministry worker. Pansy’s work decries the excesses of this regime, and we can use this-.” She points to Theo’s bag, lying on the floor where it had fallen, some pictures are still strewn about, “ – to aid in discrediting their moral authority, to discredit the very structure of our government as inherently corrupting. But - ”

“I know,” he bends to gather everything back together. “But when I go to seed the crowd the day you are elected, I need people who will believe, truly believe, that you are Nimue come again. For that, they’ll cheer you into power and demand you be handed, if not a crown exactly, then - ”

“A hennin?” She laughs.

“A regency, perhaps.” He looks very seriously at her from where he’s putting pictures back into his bag. “Full power held in trust to be passed to a princeling, darling of the public, child of an aristocratic house and a woman out of myth. With a year in office and a baby and I can have people begging you to take on that mantle, but I need to start laying the groundwork now.”

Draco mutters, “Before we start making plans for future princes, we still have to find someone to walk her down the aisle.”

Theo shifts on his feet a bit. “Would you be comfortable having me do it?” At Hermione’s look, he adds, “It’s not uncommon for a brother to walk his sister down, if the father is, well, unavailable. If I stand  _ in loco fratris _ , as it were, it would be another confirmation that, well….” She’s clearly touchy on blood status, and he’s not sure he wants to proceed.

“That you think I’m pureblood? Even though you really know I’m, what did you call me, a ‘fucking peasant’?”

“Also, a woman out of myth.” Theo rolls his eyes.

Draco snorts. “If Theo walks you down the aisle, it’ll bloody well imply your father is a Death Eater. He’d be telling the world, at least the people who read every intricate social clue for as many hidden meanings as they can ferret out, that he thinks he’s your half brother. Of course, given Nott Senior’s proclivities, I can’t say he’s the least likely candidate.”

Hermione looks at Theo, eyes narrowed. “Is there something wrong with you?”

“What?”

“A few minutes ago, I had my wand at your throat, and now you’re proposing some kind of implied adoption. I know the inbreeding can lead to instability, and now I’m worried about you. An unstable third is even worse than someone who might be disloyal because of blood status revelations.”

“You think wanting to position myself as the brother of the Dark Lady indicates I might be unbalanced?” He smirks at her.

“Either that or incredibly politically astute.”

“Go with astute. If I can’t be the king’s mistress, the bastard brother isn’t the worst second choice.” He rubs at his neck where she’d shoved her wand particularly hard. “And, Hermione, I’d be honored to walk you down the aisle. Truly. I would be honored to be your brother, even just by implication. You’re a little scary, I admit, but you’re almost single-handedly orchestrating the downfall of an entire government. You could have been a part of the little bread and circus show your friends joined, and you aren’t. This isn’t even really your fight; no one’s stripped your land from you, the corruption works in your favor, and you’ve had to surround yourself with allies - well, tools maybe – that you know despise you. And for what?”

“For power,” she says softly. “Don’t ascribe too much virtue to me, Theodore. When we’re done, I plan to be Caesar. You’re all going to give me control of your little world. Maybe a bit bloodier than Caesar, even. Did you know some Byzantine emperors used to make defeated foes drink from the skulls of their former allies? I’ve always thought that was poetic.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” murmurs Draco, tracing his fingers down her arms.

“Too frightening,” she asks, turning in his lap to look at him, her eyebrows raised.

“Not exactly. If you want to wait until the wedding, you  _ really _ have to dial it back a little, or I’m going to lose my mind.”

Theo starts to laugh. “You really are taking this pureblood thing to heart, aren’t you.” He points at Draco, his arm shaking as he laughs. “You’re getting the pureblood girl you deserve, right down to the pure part.”

“For a man who was on his knees begging for his life a few moments ago, you’re awfully free with the ha-has,” Draco mutters.

Theo looks at Hermione, and she just shrugs. “The Lady doesn’t object,” he smirks. “It’s hardly my fault you had to go and get engaged to someone actually virtuous.” He sweeps a dramatic bow towards said paragon of virtue. “May I offer to help serve your enemies their, err, goblets of wine? Assuming you plan to fill them with wine, my sweet and treacherous Niniane.”

“Wine’s good.” She smiles back at the man. “See, Draco, I’m dialing it back, just for you. A token of my adoration.”

“Do I get a token of adoration?” Theo teases, safe in her good mood. “Maybe a reward for my excellent detective work?”

“What do you want?” She arches her brows and smiles in a way that, for the right man, promises long nights of little sleep. Or, read another way, a smile that promises long nights of suffering. His cheek still stings, a welt is rising, and, worse, he knows he’s going to lie awake replaying the memory of her wand trailing over his skin; that the memory isn’t wholly bad is going to haunt him. He looks at her, sitting on Draco’s lap, Draco’s fingers twining through her hair, and shudders internally. He wonders, suddenly, if calling on mythic symbolism is such a brilliant idea after all. Fire is beautiful, it’s useful, but, no matter how mesmerizing it is, you shouldn’t stick your hand in it. 

“Maybe,” he finally says, “just a promise of leniency the next time you want to kill me?”

“Done.” As he’s turning to go, she adds with a lilt to her voice that chills him, “Assuming I remember in the heat of the moment.”

He hears Draco sigh and mutter, “Don’t scare Theo, Hermione,” and she’s laughing. 

He turns to find himself suddenly holding an armful of bushy-haired girl who’s tipping her chin up and him and saying, “I’m just teasing, Theo. Can’t a girl tease her brother?”

“Is that officially part of the legend now?” he asks, looking down at her.

“It does solve the ‘giving away’ problem. And it explains why you’re suddenly here all the time. If you found a half-sister, who happened to be marrying a friend - ”

“I’d be with one or the other of them all the time.” She shrugs in his arms, and he kisses her on the forehead. “An orphan, a queen out of myth, and now my sister. You get more interesting every day.” He nudges her back towards Draco. “May I go, milady sister? Leave you two to what you were doing before I got here?”

Draco stops Theo one more time before he leaves and asks a single question. “Who’s in charge of that muggle artifact department?” He knows the answer even before the man replies.

“Arthur Weasley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That pointed princess hat with the veil is called a hennin.
> 
> In loco fratris = in place of a brother
> 
> Niniane is another name for the Lady of the Lake.


	11. Chapter 11

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Hermione sets her tea down and settles her hands in her lap. 

“Yes,” Narcissa smiles blandly.

“Last time we met - ”

“The only time we’ve met,” the woman spoons sugar into her cup and stirs.

“Well, yes, unless you count the time your sister tortured me in your home. Though I suppose we weren’t really formally introduced that day, were we?” Hermione smiles at her future mother-in-law with an equally bland countenance, and the formidable woman’s eyes snap. 

“You certainly are a bold little thing, aren’t you?”

“My lack of reticence has been mentioned once or twice, yes. I wanted to ask you, ma’am, more about the fosterage custom you’d mentioned.”

“Yes?”

“Quite specifically, if you were to bring a child into your home, a half-blood, say, what would his blood status be.”

Narcissa Malfoy sits for a few minutes in silence, studying the composed young woman sitting at her table. The girl’s eyes don’t waver, she doesn’t blush, she doesn’t fidget. She just waits for the answer, not the slightest bit unnerved by the long pause.

“He did choose well, I have to give him that,” Narcissa says at last. “And there’s no clear precedent. Even formal adoption doesn’t always overcome the stigma of low blood status, but a child raised in a pureblood home, even a poor one, would always be more accepted than someone raised by muggles. No one would ever call a child I reared ‘mudblood.’ Which is,” the woman raises her teacup and takes a delicate sip, “what you’re asking, is it not?”

“I’m only seeking to understand your customs, ma’am.”

“And I am a crumple-horned snorkack,” the woman snorts. “Perhaps you can explain to me why my son came home and started to pull books on blood magic, fairies, and transfiguration from the manor library. He claims he has a ‘sudden interest’ in the older magics.”

“I would never dispute anything Draco says.”

“Balderdash. You are both up to something, and it has nothing to do with traditional Pictish charms.” Narcissa pauses again and then says, “Lady.” She notes that this time there is subtle stiffening in Hermione’s posture and nods. “Well then, let us talk about the wedding, shall we? Did you like the fabric swatch I sent over for your dress? I thought a subtle tint of green in the white would bring out some of the golden reds in your hair.”

Both women bend down over Narcissa’s binder of wedding plans, each having learned something.

. . . . . . . . . .

“You can’t marry him,” Ron glares at her across the table. Harry’s leaning against the wall next to them, beer in hand, watching them both. 

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione glares right back, stabbing her fork into the shepherd’s pie. “Since when do you have the right to tell me what to do? We aren’t together anymore. We aren’t even friends. I’m just a - what did you call me – oh, yes. A ‘mudblood whore.’”

“Hermione,” Harry says, eyes narrowed. “He’s using you. We’re trying to help you see reason here.”

“Well, the two of you would certainly know ‘using’ when you saw it,” she mutters. “Is that what this meeting is about? Silly me, I thought you might want to mend fences or something, but this is just another complaint about how I’m not the person you want me to be, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be such a bitch, Hermione,” Ron mutters, taking another drink from his bottle. “We’re trying to protect you.”

“Has it occurred to either of you that if I actually needed protection, I could get it from the man who  _ doesn’t  _ call me a whore or a bitch, you know, the one I’m marrying? Or from my,” she pauses, mindful even in her fury, “my friend Theo? Or you might even consider that I’m a pretty damn accomplished witch and can bloody well protect myself?”

“Your friend  _ who? _ ” 

“Theodore Nott,” Hermione smiles at them both, a smile that would have worried any of her co-conspirators but that neither Ron nor Harry recognizes. “He’s going to walk me down the aisle. We were going to ask you, Harry,” she smiles at him, sweetly and insincerely, “but you made it clear that you weren’t going to be able to handle that I’ve moved on.”

“You can’t be friends with that snake! And he cannot walk you down the aisle.” Ron growls. “You have no idea what that means, but I do. I forbid it.”

“You do what?” Hermione looks at him, her lips pressed tightly together. “Have we fallen into some alternate universe where you have the right to control my actions? Because I somehow missed that.”

“Ron, shut up. You’re making things worse.” Harry pulls out another chair and sits down. “Hermione, I love you. You’re my friend, but I can’t believe that Draco Malfoy and his miserable friends are anything but trouble. Death Eater, remember? Part of a movement that wants to take over the country, kill all the muggle-borns, put a crazy psychopath into power? Remember all of that? He wanted to kill people  _ like you _ . Marrying him is a big mistake; I don’t know what he’s up to, but he isn’t interested in you, Hermione. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Oh, you want to keep me from getting hurt?” Hermione tips her head and examines Harry. “You could have done that when Ron publicly humiliated me. You could have done that when,” she gestures towards Ron, “you know.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Harry snaps. “But that was years ago. You’re obviously fine and, anyway,” he mutters, “it’s not like you can’t be unbelievably difficult, so I’m sure it wasn’t like you were this innocent victim. And it can’t have been that big a deal because you’re sitting here, talking to him.”

“It can’t have been that big a deal?” Hermione’s voice is very calm, dangerously so. “I’m going to excuse that because of your childhood. I don’t think, after how you grew up, you have an especially good idea of what counts as a ‘big deal.’ Would it have been a ‘big deal’ if - “

Ron, impatient with the shift in the topic, reaches across the table and grabs her wrist hard, yanks her towards him and snaps, “You need to shut up and listen to us about Malfoy and, bloody hell, apparently about Nott too.”

She looks at his hand, closed so tightly around her wrist the bones are grinding together, and looks up at Ron, his face red and mottled. Without flinching, she puts her other hand on her hip, on the end of her wand and Harry, watching her, blanches. “I dare you,” she whispers, “I fucking  _ dare _ you to try it again.”

“You cannot – cannot – marry Malfoy. And it was once!” Ron snaps, loosening his grip, “And I said I was sorry, an apology I thought you’d accepted.”

“And you also said it would never,  _ never _ , happen again and yet, here you are, holding me in the exact same way that you did right before you hit me. You better pray to whatever gods you believe in that you aren’t leaving a bruise right now because if Draco sees a mark on my wrist, he will fucking kill you, and I won’t even try to stop him. Let me go. Right now.”

Ron lets go, backs away. “I’m just trying to get you to listen to me. You’ve changed. That bastard’s changed you.”

Hermione, breathing heavily, just glares at the man, hand still on her wand.

“You never told him,” Harry says, watching her. “Draco doesn’t know.”

“Well, I didn’t want Ron to die, no.” She looks at Harry. “Something I never worried about when you found out, speaking of your vast interest in ‘protecting’ me.”

Harry runs his fingers through his hair and looks at her, frustrated. “It was just once, and you guys ended it right after that. I wasn’t worried about you. What was I supposed to do?”

“I can’t possibly imagine what you might have done when you found out. You’re right, you just had no options at all except to go out partying with him while wringing your hands in my general direction. Oh dear, what to do. Ron’s volatility finally crossed a line, but, hey, she can be so difficult. I’m sure you took the time to give him a serious talking to in between ogling dancers and making backroom deals.”

“Just stop,” Harry snaps. “We are trying to get you to walk away from this farce of a marriage because, as hard as it may be to believe, given what a judgmental bitch you’ve turned into, we still care about you. Fuck, ‘Mione, even Ginny says you’re a horror these days.”

“I shall not tell lies,” she mocks. “I asked you before, does it bother you? How many generous gifts have you gotten from ‘friends’ who want you to put in a good word for them at the Ministry? And how about you, Ron?” She turns back to the furious redhead. “How’s Percy doing as under-secretary these days? Still churning out laws decreasing the amount of silver in a sickle? Does the term ‘debased coin’ mean anything to you?”

She stops and looks at them; both look, frankly, perplexed at the direction her rant has taken, though Ron’s working up to another outrage.

“Don’t talk about Percy,” he snarls. “You’re just some worthless little paper pusher down in the bowels of research, and he’s actually managing the economy. You can’t possibly understand – “

“The war was expensive, ‘Mione.” Harry’s saying patiently, over Ron’s outburst. “You aren’t really shedding tears that we stripped the bloody Death Eaters of their wealth to pay for it, are you?”

She clenches her teeth and rubs her wrist, back and forth, rubbing the circulation back. “I just... I’m just so stupid, I can’t believe I thought things would be different this time, that you might actually listen to me – I guess it’s true that money makes villains of us all. Just - this conversation is over. You’re over. You don’t think you’re doing anything wrong, fine. You don’t trust me to make my own decisions, fine. You can’t believe I might actually be happy with Draco because, hey, if you don’t like him, that’s all that should matter to me, right? Well, as it happens, I like him quite a lot, and I’m going to marry him, and you don’t actually get a say in the matter. I think the phrase I’m looking for here is: ‘bugger off.’” 

“Well,” Harry says after she stalks out. “That didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Hermione leans against the wall outside the pub, rubbing her wrist, trying not to shake. Years later and she still loses her composure when she’s faced with Ron without some kind of backup. Without, if she’s being honest, Draco. She really hopes this doesn’t bruise; he’s not going to miss even a magically healed bruise.

The barmaid comes out and, saying nothing at first, hands her a pack of ice. Hermione flashes her a wan smile and holds it up against her wrist. “There’s some,” the girl says at last, “Who wouldn’t miss them that’s in power now.”

Hermione looks at her. “The time is coming,” she agrees. “But not yet. Wait.”

“When?”

“Soon,” Hermione promises, holding the ice to her wrist. “Soon.” 

. . . . . . . . . .

“Blaise?” The man looks up from his desk to see Hermione in full Ministry mouse mode. She’s wearing a simple black skirt, flats, and a white blouse with her hair in a thick braid down her back. She looks, he thinks, like a part of someone’s catering staff. Even her voice sounds tentative. Certainly, no one would look at this woman and think “power.”

“Miss Granger.” He gives her his politician’s smile. “Is everything all right down in research? Is there something I can do for you.”

“If I could borrow a moment of your time?” Her voice ends in an upward inflection making it a weak question, and she’s fidgeting her feet. One of their co-workers walks by and throws Blaise a sympathetic glance. The man nods, the beleaguered but considerate upper manager, and Hermione closes the door then smiles at him. 

“Don’t lay it on too thick,” he says, with a roll of his eyes. “People do see you with Draco, and someone may know we’re, umm, friends outside of work. Either of those would be hard to reconcile with the creature who just closed that door.”

“Ah, true. I’ll ease back a little. I had a rotten meeting over lunch, I’m still a little shaken.” She leans back, transformed by posture alone into the woman he’s following. “I’ll be brief. There’s a bartender at the pub, the one I went to for lunch. Befriend her. She’s a contact for some kind of nebulous underground; she knows to expect you.”

“Have you…?” he taps his head.

“Yes, but I obliterated her afterwards, so she doesn’t remember. She’s sincere, but who knows whether everyone she talks to is, so be careful.” She absentmindedly rubs at her wrist, and Blaise frowns.

“What happened to your wrist?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She flushes, though, and her eye flickers just a little, and he snorts.

“You’re lying. And if you’re actually bothering to lie about it instead of just telling me you twisted it grabbing a book off a high shelf or something down in the archives, it is most certainly not nothing.” He stands up and starts walking around the desk. “Is this something to do with that ‘rotten lunch’ you had? Did this woman I’m supposed to befriend hurt you in some way?”

“Of course not!” Hermione looks so shocked he believes her. “She gave me ice for it.”

“Why, Lady, did your wrist require ice?” He stands right in front of her and puts his hands out peremptorily. She sighs and slumps a little but holds out both arms for him to look at. The first, with her bracelet, he looks at and drops. The second he stares at longer, the red mark is still faintly visible. “What happened?”

“It will be taken care of,” she mutters.

“An insult to you is an insult to all of us,” he says with deliberate calm. “An attack on you is an attack on me. The vassalage thing works both ways. What would you do if someone hurt me?”

Oh, he thinks, how her eyes flash at that. “They would die regretting they touched something of mine. Eventually.”

“Exactly.”

“Blaise. It will be taken care of. Patience.” Her voice commands, and he nods slowly, reluctantly. 

“I’ll make contact with this woman,” he murmurs, then opens the door. “Is that all, Miss Granger?”

“No, thank you for your help.” And, as a slightly less oppressed mouse walks away, he writes a quick note and sends it off.

_ Theo – find out who H had lunch with. We might have a problem. ~ B _

. . . . . . . . . .

“How’s my favorite junior researcher?” Theo sticks his head into the archives and smiles at Hermione.

“I don’t know who that is,” she grins at him, “but I’m fine.”

“Want to grab a late lunch with me?”

“Thanks, but I had lunch already.” Hermione weighs the book she’s holding and frowns at it, clearly distracted from their conversation by the text in her hand.

“Oh, c’mon. Eating at your desk doesn’t count.”

“No, really. I went down to that pub at the corner, met up with Ron and Harry. Old time’s sake and all that.” She pushes the book she’s been looking at back onto the shelves. “Would you believe we have three copies of this? And it’s never been translated?” 

“Shockingly, I would believe that. How about tomorrow then?”

“If you insist,” she’s biting the inside of her lip, pulling out what he assumes is the second copy of the text in question.

He sighs theatrically and says, “All work and no play, Hermione.”

“I said okay. Sheesh, Theo. Go away and let me do my job.” 

. . . . . . . . . .

The three men sit at a filthy table, Blaise tapping on it with his finger. 

“I hate this place,” mutters Theo. “It’s such a fucking dive. Why do we always meet  _ here? _ ”

“It’s discreet,” Draco shrugs. 

“Yeah,” Theo retorts, “Because no one in his right mind would come here anymore.”

“Whatever. Spell out for me whatever it is you two are so bothered about.” Draco tips his bottle into his mouth, swallows. “I’d much rather be exploring the depths of sexual frustration than hanging out with you two.”

“Would you ever have thought it?” Theo smirks at Blaise. “The players of all players, wrapped around the finger of a woman traditional enough to actually make him wait.”

“Sod off, arsehole,” Draco grumbles, but he’s got a smirk of his own that belies his apparent complaints.

“Our fair lady, future dark queen and your affianced bride, had lunch today with Potter and Weasley,” Blaise states baldly, bringing them back to the topic at hand. “Where something happened that resulted in her wrist needing ice, which I only found out about because it was still sore when she stopped by to speak to me later.”

“What?” Draco goes very still, bottle halfway to his mouth.

“She wouldn’t even tell me who her lunch dates were, only that it was ‘being handled.’ Not by you, I assume?”

“No. Not by me.” He sets the bottle on the table with the immense care of someone trying not to explode. “How did you find out who it was?”

“I tricked her into telling me. And, no, we can’t kill them. Not yet,” Theo’s tipping his own bottle back. After he swallows, he adds. “They’re a perfect walking advertisement for why the Order needs to go and if we off them now it’ll just look like we’re another batch of raving murderers. After she’s elected, after we’ve tightened our grip on power, then we kill them.”

“So, she has no idea we know?”

“I’m not even sure what we know,” Blaise shakes his head. “Only that something happened, she was hurt, and she’s trying to hide it. I’m sure I can find out, I mean, that’s what I do, but...”

“They both need to die.” Draco’s voice has no inflection at all. He could be telling someone the time, as unemotional as he sounds. “She’s brilliant, but she’s overly sentimental with regard to them, with regards to all her former allies. Witness: Luna.”

“Why even meet with them?” Theo sounds frustrated. “What did she think she would accomplish? Did she think they’d suddenly give up all that money, all that power, if she just asked nicely enough? ‘Please stop looting.’ How can she have these blinders about them?”

“She doesn’t have blinders exactly,” Blaise shakes his head. “She has seven years of history, and not just of friendship. She and Weasley were together – I realize you don’t like to think about that, Draco, but it’s true. More, the break up was ugly, but she keeps going back to him, like a kicked puppy. You found her watching them in a bar. Then she looked, what, when you set up that first confrontation?”

“Brokenhearted.” Theo nods. “She’s not  _ that _ good of an actress, not if you’re watching closely. She hates him, but – “

“ – but she wants not to.” Blaise completes the sentence. “And now lunch. She probably thought they’d be all ‘hey, let’s be best friends again.’”

“And she wants them to be happy for her about you as if they would ever happen.” Theo looks at Draco. “Oh, just fuck. She’s never going to let us kill them, not on purpose.”

“If I can’t coax permission to do it on purpose, we find a time to arrange an accident.” Draco looks at them both. “It’s her main weakness, the only thing that’s going to keep everything from coalescing the way we want it to. She’ll keep protecting them, and finding excuses, and putting off dealing with them. I want her queen, and I want to stand behind that throne whispering in her ear, and then I want my son to inherit, and I won’t allow those two cretins to get in the way of that.”

Theo shakes his head. “No accidents until after the election, Draco. Don’t let your personal hatred be an Achilles heel. Hell, if you could wait until we get her actually crowned, I’d appreciate it.”

“What I don’t understand,” Blaise is frowning, “is why she’s covering up for them.”

“Well, it could be as simple as she’d rather Draco not go off half-cocked and slaughter them both in the street.” Theo shifts in his chair.

“Is this,” Blaise asks, “Where I make a cock joke?”

“No,” mutters Draco. “This is where you keep your bloody mouth –

“ – off your cock?” Blaise leers mockingly then laughs. “No problem. I’ll stick to sticking my lunatic blonde.”

“Figure it out, Draco,” Theo mutters. “You’re the one she’s closest to. We need her for all this, hell, you know I’d follow her to the ends of the earth, but we do  _ not  _ need third act problems because she still thinks she’s on the same side as those two. Figure out what is going on and stop it before she undoes everything we are trying to do.

“If I tell her to stay away from them – “

“That’ll never work,” Blaise shakes his head. “It’ll just tick her off. We’ll have to tag team her until the wedding. After that, you keep her busy. Maybe by then, you’ll figure out what the allure is, why she keeps going back to get kicked again.”

“Get her pregnant while you’re keeping her busy,” Theo says, and when Draco looks at him, he adds, “I want her showing when she’s sworn in.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione shoves a treat at the owl and opens the note as the bird flies away. All it says is, “the rabbit died.” She smiles, and holds the note in her palm, watches it burst into flame. She’s not one to leave a paper trail.

. . . . . . . . . .

He walks up behind her in the kitchen, puts her hands on her shoulders and lowers his mouth to her neck; shifting one hand to pull her hair out of the way, he begins to kiss slowly along the line of her muscles, letting his lips drift slowly down to her shoulder. He slides his hands down her arms and wraps his fingers around her wrists, feeling his bracelet under one hand but also feeling her flinch slightly as he touches the other wrist.

It still hurts her. Hours later. 

He turns her slowly around and lifts that wrist to his mouth and kisses it, watching her eyes. She closes them and mutters, “You talked to Blaise.”

“Tell me who I kill.” He keeps his voice calm. “It could be terribly awkward if I murdered the wrong man.”

“You can’t – “

“Actually, I can, and I will. You might be able to talk me into waiting if it’s expedient, but whoever did this to you is most assuredly not going to reach old age.” He waits, her wrist still at his mouth, watching her closed eyes. She sighs and slumps back against the counter before she finally opens her eyes and, staring at the floor, answers him.

“Ron.”

He nods. “Once you’re in power, he dies.” He waits longer, braced against arguments, but finally, she nods, and he relaxes just a little; one down, one to go. Potter, however, will keep for later. 

Wrapping one arm around her waist, he holds her to him and buries his face in her hair. She starts to speak, and he hushes her. “Let me enjoy kissing you; you’re hurt, and I’m beyond angry, but I’m in control. Trust me, Hermione.”

She looks up at him, her eyes guarded, and before he can do anything, she says, “Make it slow.” 

He blinks at her, trying to decide what she means, then smiles. Either way, he’s happy to oblige. He puts one hand on each side of her face and leans down and kisses first her forehead, then the tip of her nose, then her mouth. Her lips soften and part under his, and he takes his teeth and pulls lightly on her lower lip. As he does so, she takes her hands and winds them into his hair. He quickly lifts her up onto the counter, sweeping some of her cheap plates out of the way, so she has room to sit. He pulls his head back and looks at her, really looks at her. Sitting on the stained counter in one of those horrid jumpers with her hair a frizzy mess around her face, she’s radiant, beautiful, his. 

He bends down and begins to kiss her along the line of her jaw, a lick, a tiny nip with his teeth that makes her gasp, and another kiss. Then he captures her mouth again and starts to leisurely explore, one hand holding her head to his, another grabbing her hand to twine his fingers around hers. He’d call it a soul-shattering kiss, long and ardent, with no expectation of any kind of progression, no hope at all that she’d actually let him into her bed, into her; he’d call it that if she hadn’t already shattered his soul and left it in pieces on her floor. This, this, then is just a kiss, just a long, slow kiss that might kill him. 

He pulls away from her mouth and fastens his lips on her throat, sucking and biting until he reaches the hollow right at the base and runs his tongue in a circle around and around, imagining he’s licking her elsewhere, imagining any number of things. Finally, he leans his head against her shoulder and says, roughly, “Have I told you, ever, how much I like seeing that bracelet on your wrist? How much I like that you never take it off?”

She’s breathing hard and, when he looks up at her, her eyes seem oddly bright. She closes them and whispers, almost as if she doesn’t quite want him to hear, “It feels like a bit of you, wrapped around me, keeping me safe.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he wraps his arms around her and pulls her to him. “You’re safe with me. Just let me protect you, let me be yours, and I’ll stand behind you and make sure no one ever dares hurt you again. I promise.”


	12. Chapter 12

“What’s in this for you, anyway?” Blaise is leaning back against the wall, legs stretched out, and a pile of books to one side. He’s been methodically opening each book, searching the contents, marking pages, and setting them back down. “I know what Draco wants – his son on a throne. Pansy’s just a pureblood supremacist, so anyone offering a return to a world with herself at the top of the food chain would appeal to her. But you – you’re a bit more of an enigma.”

“Maybe I’m just as much of a pure-blood ideologue as Pansy.” Theo looks up from his pile of stolen documents. “Anything to put our team back in power. Or maybe I’m an idealist, chaffing under the corrupt rule of the Order.”

“Wrong answer,” Blaise snorts. “How about the truth?”

“Would you believe I just want my vaults back?”

“If you told me you were  _ voting _ for a conservative party planning to do away with excessive post-war property seizures, return property to the original owners, yes, I’d believe that. That you are sitting in my flat, picking through an intricate web of economic deceit and figuring out how to make it comprehensible to hedge witches in Leeds, that you’ll be walking a rising dark power down the aisle and handing her over to one of your best mates, inextricably publicly linking yourself with them? No, that’s a bit much commitment for just wanting your money back.”

“How about you?” Theo shoves the papers away and leans back in his chair. “Run off to Italy, my friend. I know you’ve got plenty of money tucked away there, and no Death Eater father in your past you have to wear like a millstone around your neck. Marry some pretty girl with half a brain in her head, churn out the required heir, enjoy life.”

“I’d love to do that,” Blaise tears another bookmark and tags a page in the book in his hand. “I’d love to raise some kids, travel. I’m just too afraid.” Theo makes a questioning noise, and Blaise sighs. “The bastards outnumber us, Theo. How many muggles could you hold off, really? If the witch-hunts started again in earnest, if it wasn’t just some outlier beating his kid to make the magic go away but an actual full-on hunt? We have wands, Theo. What the fuck good is a wand against an army of muggles with the weapons they have?”

Theo shakes his head. “I think there’s enough arcane spellcraft in the books you’re going through right now to wipe out a town with little more than a thought and - “

“And that’s all banned.” Blaise slams the book down. “We aren’t allowed to use it. We aren’t even allowed to give a kid a wand to protect himself until he’s old enough to go to school, where he’ll be taught watered-down magic so he can scrub the dishes or fix a tear in a shirt but not wage war.”

“I didn’t know you were so eager to go back to war.”

“I’m not.” Blaise pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “But we’re deliberately cutting ourselves off from power because we’re afraid of dark magic, we’re weakening ourselves all the while we’re bringing mudbloods who are nothing but security leaks into our world. We’re surrounded by people who, if they knew we existed, would try to hunt us down to kill us if we were lucky, study us if we weren’t. I’d be a fool not to be concerned about that, not to want to be prepared.”

Theo pulls his paperwork towards him again. “I agree.” He flicks a glance up at Blaise. “I’m working for a time when the power is ours to take, with no bureaucrat showing up to tell me I can’t do blood magic, or that they’ve arbitrarily decided a particular spell is evil. Plus, well, economics, of course, and personal power; I plan to have considerable personal power when this is all over. I don’t think I have the same issues with muggle-borns you do, though.”

“If they didn’t come with muggle parents, I wouldn’t care,” Blaise mutters, “But they do. And muggle siblings, and muggle cousins and muggle...”

“I get it,” Theo cuts him off. “You’re starting to sound like Pansy.”

“Ouch, mate.” Blaise clutches at his chest. “You stab me right in the heart with that.”

“What are you researching, anyway?”

“Seduction.”

Theo’s tricked into laughter at the incongruence of their different subjects. “Since when have you needed help with that? Plus, aren’t you still screwing Luna?”

“I don’t, and I am, thank you very much. It’s not for me. It’s for Hermione.”

“First, that’s moderately creepy, and, second, well, have you seen the way Draco looks at her? I think she might need help with seduction even less than you do.”

“Could you try to not be a moron?” Blaise picks up the next book in his pile. “I mean, fuck, we ship Greg off to the country to look after Astoria, and now you decide to take over his job as the village idiot? I’m just looking for a way I can make her just slightly more compelling, more interesting. Something subtle that will make voters lean just a little bit more towards her. Has to be undetectable, of course, and can’t be so blatant men will start following her in the streets.”

“That,” Theo looks unwillingly impressed, “that is actually brilliant.”

“If there’s any kind of spell my mother collected, it was variations on seduction.” Blaise shrugs. “She’s got stuff that no one else has looked at in hundreds of years. Somewhere in here, I’ll find something I can adapt.”

“First, we get her elected…” Theo murmurs.

“…and then we end elections,” Blaise finishes the thought, and both men smile at one another.

. . . . . . . . . .

She sticks her head through the door and calls out, “Anyone home?”

Greg looks up and frowns. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t scold. I get enough of that from Theo.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “I wanted to see how you two were doing. I’m sure it’s already harder than you expected.”

Astoria walks into the room, one hand at her back, and looks at Hermione, her face slowly relaxing into a smile. “At least it’s not Daphne, come to shove yet more articles about the dangers of childbirth at me, or scare stories about what happens if I don’t take every prenatal vitamin on the perfect schedule.” She waves the other woman into the room. “Can I get you anything?”

“You,” Hermione enters the cottage and drops her bag on a table by the door, “can get off your feet. Greg could get me some water?” As the man leaves the room, she sighs. “How are you doing. Really? Daphne gives me updates, but she’s…”

“…weirdly obsessed with birth defects and hard labors?”

“Yeah. Would you rather have Pansy checking up on you?”

Astoria shudders. “No.” She settles down into a chair. “I’m getting fat, none of my clothes fit, I’m swallowing these stupid, giant pills, I feel like throwing up all the time, and I can barely keep my eyes open. Oh, and the smell of cooking chicken makes me want to die. Other than that, I’m fine.” She shifts and mutters, “I wish men got pregnant.”

“How’s Greg doing?”

“He’s… he’s really great, actually. I guess it’ll get hard for him when the world knows he’s raising a bastard, but – “

“I’ve told you,” Greg’s come back and hands Hermione a glass of water. “I don’t care about that…”

“Yeah, well, and the stupid midwife keeps making suggestive comments about how ‘girls in trouble’ can find ‘good homes’ with infertile pureblood couples. The idea I might actually want to keep the baby appears to be totally impossible for this woman to wrap her mind around.”

“We are not – “ Greg starts.

“Of course not,” Hermione looks at him. “I actually came to ask you if you’d consider allowing Draco and I to be godparents.”

Greg’s mouth falls open, and even Astoria looks startled. “I… is there anyone who  _ wouldn’t  _ want the Lady to stand as godmother? It’s… it’s a lifelong bond, as strong as kinship. It’s…”

Greg coughs. “I know you weren’t raised with, umm, proper parents. Are you sure you know what you’re offering?”

Hermione squats next to Astoria, reaching her hand out towards the other woman’s abdomen. “I told you this would earn my gratitude. Once we’ve won, let me make that esteem something with real cachet to balance the shame you’re going to endure in the press. Let our children be friends as they grow, let your little one be like royalty in the world we’re going to build.” She looks up at Greg and grins, “Plus, it’ll piss Ginny off to no end. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you.”

“I…no. I’m honored,” the man stumbles over the words. 

“Astoria?” 

Eyes suspiciously bright, the woman nods. “Stupid hormones,” she mutters after a bit. “Everything makes me cry.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione walks into her flat to find her three boys – well, men – standing in a tight group. She wonders if it ever occurs to them that their headquarters is also her home, that maybe she’d prefer them to not simply let themselves in whenever they felt like it. She can never so much as leave a dirty sock on the floor without being afraid they’ll spot it. Before she can complain, however, they part before her and there, tied up on her floor, lies a woman she’s never seen before.

“Who does this belong to?” she raises her eyebrows.

“Blaise found her,” Theo mutters.

“I don’t mean to be prudish here, Blaise, but can’t you play kinky sex games in your own flat?”

Draco covers a laugh with a quick cough, and Theo snorts, but Blaise just rolls his eyes. “As if I’d want to play sex games with any of you lot around. It’s - I’ve been hovering around the edges of some meetings, and I overheard her talking. She’s… well, I think you should look at her, Lady.”

Hermione sighs and frowns at Blaise. “You had to bring her  _ here _ ? Really? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of these old floors? They’re practically sponges, the way they absorb liquids.” She squats down in front of the woman and examines her. “Do I know her?”

“Probably not,” Theo shakes his head. “My guess is she didn’t go to Hogwarts; a lot of people home school rather than send their kids to board. It doesn’t lead to the best magical education, but what can you do?”

Pansy opens the door, sees the woman on the floor, Hermione squatting in front of her, and starts to laugh. “I take it our little social meetings are becoming a bit more hands-on?”

Hermione bites her lip and looks up at the other woman. “I think you should go and distract Luna, Pans, before she shows up for coffee and conversation. I doubt she’d be quite on board with this evening’s apparent change of plans.” Theo chokes back some kind of sound the rest of them ignore. “Can you do that?”

“I am my Lady’s humble servant,” Pansy tugs her forelock mockingly. “Do I want to know what’s about to happen here?”

“Probably not,” Draco holds the door for her, and Pansy hefts her bag over her shoulder, goes back out to head off Luna muttering under her breath about the general unfairness of her life and how no one lets her have any fun. “No,  _ I  _ get to babysit the lunatic,” she’s saying as the door closes behind her.

“Now,” Hermione turns her attention back to the woman, hauling her up from her side to a kneeling position, waiting for her to get her balance. “To deal with you. Who, my dear, are you, and what do you know about us?”

The woman spits in her face.

“Strategic thinking not exactly your greatest strength, is it?” Hermione wipes the spittle off her cheek and without looking up, asks, “Theo, if you were in enemy hands, what would you do?”

“Attempt to convince them I was terrified of you, eager for a chance to defect, claim I had all sorts of inside knowledge,” he drawls. “I certainly wouldn’t waste energy in heroic gestures of defiance.”

“You can,” the woman gasps. “You can defect - save me and you can –“

“Ah, but love. I’m not the one in enemy hands,” Theo shakes his head in mock disappointment. “You are. And, besides, whoever you are, I doubt you’re important enough to know anything or be offering any kind of guarantees.”

“Let me see if I can clarify your predicament for you since you don’t seem to quite grasp it,” Hermione smiles at the woman. “You are surrounded by four people, none of whom are particularly well disposed towards you, and, of the lot, I’m probably the least bloodthirsty. The best possible outcome for you right now is for me to loot your mind and then dump you, obliviated, outside a pub. The worst possible outcome, well, that probably doesn’t bear dwelling on but, if you spit on me again, I suspect you are going to find this evening to be more, rather than less, unpleasant.”

“You can all defect,” the woman gasps, “The Order…”

Theo starts to laugh. “Do you really think you can peel away the Lady’s  _ core supporters _ in her own flat? We’re loyal to the death, you bumbling idiot. Preferably your death, of course, but you are really picking the wrong crowd to subvert, especially if your bait is the Order.”

Hermione leans back on her heels. “Draco, do you have any moral compunction against killing this woman?”

Draco snorts. He’s propped himself up against the doorframe between the main room and the kitchen and is ostentatiously cleaning nonexistent dirt out from under his fingernails. 

“Theo?” Hermione continues.

“Is that a serious question?” the man asks.

“Blaise?” 

“I do think we should find out what she knows first, but,” he shrugs, “your will is my life.”

“Perhaps,” Hermione murmurs, her lips so close to the other woman’s ear she can feel the other woman’s skin under them. “You have a better sense of what you’re facing now. We all  _ hate  _ the Order, and everyone you’ve seen here is utterly, unswervingly loyal to me and to our goals, even that woman who looked at you and laughed before abandoning you to your fate. We can’t be swayed to change sides by money, we already have more power than you’ll ever know, and none of us are playing by rules you understand.” She takes her finger and traces it along the planes of the woman’s face, watching the tears spill out her eyes. “I wonder what I’m going to find when I start walking the pathways of your soul? Is your connection to the Order something you’ve made up to feel important? Are you an insignificant part of their machine? Or do you really have a tie to someone, do they really know about us? For your sake, I hope it’s the first, but I have a suspicion the fear in your eyes means it’s not.” She balances back again, rocking on her heels, and puts her wand under the woman’s chin. “Keeping me out of your mind is likely not something you can control. How much pain you feel, however…”

She’s indulging in a dramatic shrug when the woman spits at her again. Hermione shakes her head. “You shouldn’t have done that. Now I’m going to have to let boys indulge some of their less savory protective urges.” She watches the woman grow even paler, then slides her way in, letting memories, thoughts, fears – a lot of fears – move past her. The woman’s a simple thinker; it’s so easy to pick out useful bits of information Hermione briefly worries it’s a trap and probes harder, with even less care, and there’s still no trace of deceit. It’s all just there, simple, plain, obvious. 

“Blaise, take notes,” she calls out and starts reeling off a list of contacts with the working class underground who are loyal to the order, or, at any rate, loyal to the coins they’ve been passed. The woman starts to keen, a horrible, high-pitched sound that ends when Hermione, done, stands up, steps back, and kicks the woman, who has curled in on herself on the floor and started to whimper. “Honestly,” Hermione snaps, “you’d think it was the cruciatus curse, the way you’re acting, not just a little legilimancy. Have some pride and control yourself.” 

“Obviously, the Order knows about the simmering discontent among the masses and are tracking it. Do they know about you? How bad it is?” Theo’s idly swinging his wand back and forth.

“Well, she didn’t. Doesn’t mean none of them do.”

“Looks like we’re entering phase two.”

“Indeed.” Hermione tucks her wand away, wipes her hands on the front of her thighs. “I’m going to open a bottle of wine. As long as you don’t kill her, I don’t care what happens while I’m out of the room.” She pauses at the doorway to reach up and kiss Draco, who wraps an arm around her and pulls her closer, thrusting into her mouth.

“You’re sick,” the woman chokes out. “Snogging your Death Eater boyfriend after torturing me.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Hermione breaks contact and looks back at her. “That wasn’t torture. What happens next, that’s the torture. You really shouldn’t have spit at me a second time, but I did warn you. Theo, would you be so kind at to silence her?”

“My apologies that I didn’t do it sooner,” he murmurs. “I don’t suppose you have any snacks tucked away in that closet you call a kitchen you could put out on a plate for us? Hunger makes me irritable.”

“I’ll find something, take my time to set it out,” Hermione smiles at the woman. “Food presentation is so important, don’t you agree?” She starts to leave the room again then adds, “If you gentlemen get blood on my floor, you’re cleaning it up. Before we eat.”

. . . . . . . . .

When she comes back in, balancing a tray with assorted starters on one hand, several wine glasses carefully held in the other and a bottle under her arm, the woman, silent, huddles on the floor in as small a ball as she can manage. Blaise smoothly takes the tray away and sets it on the table she’d finally purchased and slides the wine bottle out from where she’s pressed it to her side. One at a time, she sets the glasses on the table then sighs. 

“Well,” Blaise has pulled the stopper out of the wine and is pouring it into each glass. “I’m worried about the underground. It’s a good entry into the general popular discontent, but it’s clearly riddled with informants.”

“I know,” Hermione takes a sip from her glass and frowns at their captive. “Still, even a flawed tool can be useful, and we do need to tap into more widespread support. But I want you to be careful. We can’t afford to lose you. I can’t afford to lose you.”

“You flatter me,” he raises his glass towards her, but under the mocking words, he looks pleased.

“What are we going to do with her?” Theo still squats in front of the nearly unconscious woman, frowning.

“Dump her at St. Mungo’s?” Draco suggests. “Obliviated?”

“Not just obliviated,” Hermione looks at him. “Wipe her brain. I want nothing left. Let her fellows see her and wonder whether there’s a cost to selling information to the Order.”

Theo stands and crosses to her, takes her hand in his and kisses her fingers. “Lady.”

“Will you do it, Draco, or shall I?” She watches him, her hand still in Theo’s, and he considers them, Blaise standing behind the pair, wine glass in hand. 

“I would be honored, fairest Niniane. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I sometimes forget how ruthless you can be.”

“I told you,” she says quietly, “that I was going to betray them all, bind them up in that metaphorical tree.” She takes a sip of her wine. “Did you think I wouldn’t have the stomach for it?”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco pulls her into his arms and lets his fingers play with the tips of her curls. “You okay after all that?”

“Wading through her mind was like sticking your hands into a swamp, just slimy and wet and oozing. Not that she was hard to read, but she was just - ” Hermione grimaces. “Thank you for burning her out; the thought of having to go back into her head made me feel ill. The whole thing makes me feel a little ill.”

He tightens his hold on her. “You knew it would come to this, eventually.”

“Knowing and doing are not always the same thing.” She presses her cheek into him. “She’d figured it out, you know. She wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but she’d figured out Blaise wasn’t just another dissatisfied shopkeeper, and she was excited to tell someone. It was fun to turn in her friends who got together to grumble about the Order, but Blaise, she knew she’d caught a bigger fish with him. She was hoping they’d let her watch them question him, wanted to see him hurt.”

“Tell whom, though?”

“She didn’t know a name; some intelligence contact.” Hermione shakes her head against his chest. “Trust me, I looked. Ugg. Her mind – she was not a clear thinker.” She settles there, against him, and they lay in silence for a while. Finally, she asks, “Do I want to know what you all did to her?”

“Probably not,” he buries his face into her curls. “You have to really mean it, you know, and we did.”


	13. Chapter 13

Theo looks down at her, frank admiration in his eyes. “Are you ready, Lady.”

Pansy, fussing with the train, mutters, “Watch it, Theo. You don’t know who’s listening,” but Theo smiles back at her and shrugs. “There’s no one here who shouldn’t hear me.”

Hermione’s staring into the mirror propped on a mantle in this makeshift dressing area. One of the downsides of the inexpensive wedding has been the dressing room accommodations at the public park; Pansy and Luna have gotten her ready and touched up her hair in what amounts to little more than a cinderblock cabin with a single window. “You look beautiful,” Theo puts his fingers under her chin and turns her to face him. “Let the photographer get your picture for the paper, then I’ll walk you down to Draco.”

She smiles at him, clearly nervous, and then poses for the formal society page bridal portrait. The light catches her hair, and the shadows highlight the detailing in her dress. The picture catches her looking modestly down and then smiling shyly at the camera; it’s a portrait that more than one girl will cut out to study her dress, study her hair. More than one girl will mimic that hair, braids wrapping around the head, a subtle circlet containing a waterfall of curls, at her next formal event. 

Left alone as Pansy and Luna leave, the photographer following them, Theo and Hermione look at one another. “It’s almost showtime,” he murmurs and kisses her fingers. “I know, you know - hell, even Pansy probably knows - that this, this was not a love match. It started as much more in the way of a bargain; he offered you his connections and blood status, and you offered him power behind that throne we both know you’ll end up sitting on. But, Hermione, I know he adores you. Please give him a chance.”

“I always thought,” she whispers, “ since fourth year, that it would be someone else.”

“Well,” Theo pulls her into a hug. “You dodged a bullet there, didn’t you?”

“You’re going to get makeup on your shirt,” she mutters.

“Oh, honestly,” he pulls her in tighter. “Do you really think I don’t know how to get lipstick out of my shirts? Wizard, remember? I know I’m no Blaise, but I have been known to date upon occasion, sometimes even people who wear makeup.” He pauses for a moment, then brings his hand up to stroke her hair, tuck an errant curl behind her ear. “You know, we all like you for who you are, Lady, in all your ruthless, vicious glory. Not because you do our homework.”

She laughs into his chest at that. “You hardly need someone else to do your work for you.”

“Well, and neither does Draco. Never did, the rotter.”

She sighs and pulls away from him. “Ah, Theo. Having you as a friend may be one of the best parts of this whole endeavor.”

“A brother, my dear.” He holds out his arm. “One pureblood supremacist, bent on world domination, at your service.” She puts her hand over his arm and, just before they head out, he adds quietly, searching her eyes, “Do you like him, Hermione? Enough to be happy?” Whatever he sees must reassure him because he shoves the door of their barracks open with one foot, careful not to scuff his shoe, and guides her over the threshold. 

. . . . . . . . . .

This, if he is being honest, is not what Draco had always assumed his wedding would be like. Not that he’d really given it a tremendous amount of thought, but he’s been to enough weddings, dragged along by his parents and threatened with dire consequences if he didn’t behave that he has developed a clear idea of what a regular wedding is. A regular, proper wedding involves expensive venues, imported flowers, hundreds upon hundreds of people, and at least one drunken elderly relative. It did  _ not _ , in his experience, mean a public park with a few score people sitting on folding chairs. His mother looks smugly pleased by the entire situation, however, and he hopes that means she’s successfully mustered every signal of propriety and dignity she could dredge out of her vast social playbook. Pureblood aristocrats don’t marry impoverished orphans every day, but if there’s a right way to pull such a thing off, she’s the one who would know it. When he’d told her Theo had agreed to walk Hermione down the aisle, she’d smiled, one of her inward smiles, and nodded. “Good. I always liked that boy.” 

Now he’s waiting, in this scraggly little park, for Theo to bring him his bride. Pansy’s already come out of that grim little cinderblock box and nodded to him. Luna, the only official bridesmaid, stands at the other end of the cleared aisle between the chairs, waving off at – oh, really? – Potter, who, despite not being invited, seems to have propped himself up against a tree some distance away to watch the proceedings. Well, that’s interesting.

He looks back and sees Theo carefully helping Hermione over the raised step at the door. The guests, pureblood all, turn and watch the pair. Draco notices several women lean over to friends, whispers spread through the seats as Luna starts to walk down towards him. He ignores her, batty thing that she is, and stares at the end of the aisle where Hermione waits, hand resting on Theo’s arm, face turned towards him as he leans down to say something to her. All women, he’s heard his mother say, are beautiful on their wedding day. History has suggested to him that this sentiment is grounded more in wishful thinking than objective assessment; plenty of plain women remain plain women, even in expensive gowns and with elaborate hairdos. Still, since he thinks Hermione beautiful when she’s got ink on her lips from chewing on a quill, it’s no surprise he finds her lovely today. Breathtaking, he corrects himself. 

The browning grass, the metal chairs, the dumpy official in her sensible flat shoes, he ignores all of these irritants as he watches this woman walk towards him. The guests have all stood to politely acknowledge her, Theo’s handing her off to him, giving her one last, tight hug before murmuring in his ear, “Make her happy, or I kill you,” and taking his own place as best man. The ministry official begins to drone on; it’s the standard ceremony, and he’s heard it enough to have it memorized so he can pay attention, instead, to his bride. Bushy haired, buck-toothed, know-it-all Granger, who is standing here in front of him, marrying him, holding a tiny nosegay of – are those water lilies? He almost laughs when he realizes she’s picked water lilies. He manages to contain himself, and just grins down at her, his brilliant, sly, amazing Hermione. His Lady of the Lake. His. 

She’s smiling back up at him, her own gaze direct and unwavering. She’s giving whatever the appropriate responses are, as is he, but the official might not be there for all the attention he’s paying her. All he knows, all he can see, all he can think of is this woman in front of him. He slips the ring, a circlet of emeralds, onto her finger, turns her hand, and presses his lips into her palm. She takes her hand and presses it to his cheek, and he hears the official pronounce them married. He pulls her into his arms and places the symbolic kiss, binding them, on her lips. A model of propriety, she doesn’t melt or sink into his arms but remains the cool pureblood, endlessly alluring and unavailable, not one to engage in a distasteful public spectacle. The guests start to clap, and he offers her his arm, leads her back up the aisle, Luna, and Theo following them.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Such a lovely ceremony.”

“A beautiful bride, nice to see things done simply and elegantly for a change.”

“Theodore Nott walking her down the aisle – I didn’t expect that!”

“She volunteers, you know. Not like the rest of that war crew.

“I’m sure Narcissa planned the whole thing; that woman has impeccable taste.”

“Did you see the way he couldn’t look away from her? I wish my groom had looked at me like that, back in the day!”

. . . . . . . . . .

When he thinks to look again, after the ceremony, Potter is gone.

. . . . . . . . . .

“You look beautiful,” Draco whispers. “The hint of green in the dress surprised me.”

“A nod to your childhood school affiliation,” she’s leaning into him as they dance. “It was your mother’s idea, though she tried to claim it was to bring out the non-existent red in my hair.”

“And the flowers?”

“Ah, that was my contribution.”

“I like them,” he spins her around before pulling her close again. “And you as well.”

“I know.” She’s silent for a bit, then adds, “You know I like you too, right?”

“I do,” he closes his eyes for a moment. “Still, it’s always nice to hear.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Custom dictated the bride’s family – or, in this case, the bride – pay for the wedding and Draco had overheard enough pleased chatter to realize keeping it simple and in Hermione’s budget had been the right choice. The wedding night, however, he had paid for. “By that point, she’ll be my wife, so it hardly matters if the bill goes to me,” he’d snapped at his mother when she’d objected, “and I’m not staying in some bed-bug ridden hovel.” Their bridal suite was, therefore, exclusive, elegant, and would have been perfect if Hermione weren’t standing at the foot of the bed looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

He raises his eyebrows and studies her. “Riveted for life, my dear. I hope you aren’t having second thoughts now.”

“No,” she stammers. “It’s just..”

“What?” He pulls off one shoe, then another, and sits on the edge of the bed next to her, tugs her down into his side. “How do I get this dress off, anyway?” He looks at the back and makes a face. “Do I really have to undo all of these buttons?”

“Yes,” she twists away from him, moves so several inches are separating them, and he waits for her to turn so he can start the task of releasing her from the gown, but she doesn’t, and he looks at her then, really looks at her. She’s pale and stiff, and he reaches a hand out to her face.

“Hey,” he traces his fingers along her cheekbones, down the edge of her jaw. “I don’t mean to sound so unromantic. I just assumed you’d want to get out of that thing. It’s beautiful, but it can’t be totally comfortable.”

“It’s okay,” she mutters. Then she smiles, a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “And I never get to wear it again, right, so I should enjoy it.”

“Of course,” he watches her.

‘What did you like best about the wedding?” She’s talking a little too brightly as she slips off her own shoes and reaches down to rub at the soles of her feet.

“The bride,” he smiles at her. “I think you made me promise to do that.” She looks at him, confused, and he shakes his head. “Remember when I first ordered you to wear heels, and you finally agreed only with the caveat I would have to massage your feet. Well?” 

He lowers himself down to kneel on the floor at her feet; she’s still unwontedly nervous, white-knuckling the edge of the bedspread. “You don’t need to look so terrified; I’ve been told I’m acceptably skilled at this; no one’s lost a toe yet.” He pulls one foot into his lap and starts to knead the bare skin of the ball of her foot. “No stockings?”

“Pansy told me they spoiled the line of the dress,” she’s slowly releasing her death grip on the coverlet. “Mmm, that’s really nice.”

“I’m a man of many talents.” He puts his hands on the other foot and continues to move his thumbs in slow circles. Circle after circle, and she’s closing her eyes and starting to sag into ease above him. He slides his hands up her leg and starts massaging her calf, then lowers his mouth to her foot and nuzzles her toes. She immediately tenses again, and he murmurs “Shhh” against her foot and kisses along the arch of her foot, up her ankle and along the curve of her calf. He starts to slip the dress up over her knees, holds it up at her thighs, and she’s inexplicably frozen again. 

He lets go of the silk, leans back again and looks at her. He’s had a lifetime of wealth, privilege, and an aura of danger. He’s never had the slightest reticence about exploiting to get pretty girls into bed and, as a result, he’s slept with a fair number of women, more than one of whom had been inexperienced. Something is going on here, and it’s not as straightforward as he’d prefer. Not even people who despise him have ever called him slow, and now he’s taking her dating history, her injured wrist, Blaise’s rumor-mongering, and her obvious fear and is adding them up; the final sum isn’t clear yet, but he’s quite sure he’s not going to like it when it is. He opts to go for a seemingly direct question.

“Is this your… are you a…” he trails off at the ashamed look on her face. 

“I’m not sure,” she finally mutters.

That, he thinks, is not a good answer. It’s revealing but not good. “How can you not be sure? It’s pretty much a binary issue.”

“Ron had… he… issues.”

“Weasley couldn’t keep it up with you?” Well goddamn. Blaise had been right, partially right at least; he’s sure there’s more.

“He told me I was dumpy, not…”

Suppressing a building sense of rage, Draco leans further back and makes a show of admiring her. “I assure you, you are not dumpy.”

“So, anyway, he couldn’t, and we didn’t, but we’d started to, so, well, I’m not sure.”

“Wait,” he shakes his head as if he could clear out the bad thoughts with vigorous movement. “Are you telling me he told you that you weren’t sexy enough to please him, and it was your fault he couldn’t keep it up  _ your first time? _ ?” 

“Yeah.” She looks away, takes a deep breath, and seems to make a decision. “That’s when he hit me.”

Draco freezes. “What?”

“It was just the once,” the words are falling out of her mouth. “He was so frustrated, so upset that it just wasn’t working, he grabbed me and then – “

He’s up off the floor and pulling her tight into his arms before she can finish. He holds on, knowing if he lets go, he’s going to leave and come back with blood on his hands. “I assume,” his words are clipped, “that’s when you left him.”

“Are you upset?” It’s the lost, sad sound of her voice that hurts the most. “It’s nothing…” 

“It’s not ‘nothing.’ Don’t say that. And, I’m livid, trust me. I’m… does Potter know?”

He expects her to say no. Nothing else would make any sense, so he doesn’t even quite register the wan little “yes.” He has to stop and replay her answer in his mind, and then he starts to swear. He’d spent a year of his life cooped up with a madman and his equally deranged henchmen, and, between that and what his mother once called his ‘strong verbal skills,’ he has an impressive vocabulary. It takes a while before he starts to repeat actual words though the sentiment – that he’s going to kill both of them in painful and drawn out ways – remains constant. 

He’s reached, “I’m going to go Edward the second on those malingering whoresons” when she starts to giggle. By “pox-marked pignuts,” she’s actually laughing, and he leans back and looks at her, reaches a thumb up, and rubs some wetness from under her eyes. “Are you actually crying about those wretched, witless, worthless blood traitors? Because I’m going to add an extra 10 minutes to their deaths for every tear.” 

“I'm sorry,” she’s trying to compose herself. “It's really inappropriate for me to cry about another man on our wedding night, isn’t it. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” She’s back to that forced smile. “Stiff upper lip and all that.”

He huffs out an exasperated snort. “Get on with it? What, you plan to lay back and think of England while I plow you like some rutting goat? I don’t think so.” He pulls her back into a tight hug. “We’ll ‘get on with it,’ as you so depressingly put it, when you aren’t upset or afraid, and if that’s another night, so be it.” He reaches around behind her head and starts to untwine her braids, releasing the crown and undoing each plait. She slowly softens into his touch as he runs his fingers through her curls. 

They stand there, his fingers twining in her hair. “Tell me,” he says, “something I don’t know about you.”

“I just did,” she objects.

“Something less likely to push me into a murderous rage, perhaps?”

She sighs and shifts against him. “I hate flying.”

“I actually knew that.”

“I’m not very good at cleaning charms.”

“I’d figured that out. You’re not very good at this game either, are you?” he teases her, feeling her body slowly relax against his at this familiar back and forth.

“You remind me of the ocean,” she finally says. “before a storm when everything feels taut, when the air smells of rain that hasn’t come yet, when the grey of the clouds and the grey of the water stretch out forever in front of you.”

He listens to her breathe, feels the warmth of her pressed up against him. “Is that good?” he asks after a while.

“I love the ocean,” she says simply.

He listens to that, feels himself inhale at her words, but doesn’t say anything. He just traces a circle against her hip with his fingers, round and round, lulling her, lulling himself. When she turns her face up and starts to kiss him, he feels like he might fragment into a thousand shards of fear and worry and rage and joy. He returns the kiss until he’s slowly, thoroughly tasting her, until he’s gasping into her until she’s starting to writhe against him.

“I should have told you,” she’s muttering, “before you were stuck with me.”

“Told me what,” he’s lowering his lips to her neck and is drawing circles on her skin with his tongue. “About the flying? I’ve known that since before we hit puberty. And, trust me, ‘stuck’ is not the right word.”

“That, Ron said, that I was,” she’s so quiet he can barely hear her, and he holds very still, listening, “that I was cold, unresponsive, no fun…”

He trails his fingers down her arm and at her sharp inhale of breath murmurs, “You aren’t unresponsive, Hermione. You’ve been driving me to the point of insanity for what feels like an eternity but, trust me on this one, it’s not because you don’t respond to my touch.” He pauses. “What else did the bastard say?”

“I… I,” she stammers. “I didn’t, well, lubricate, and he told me that I was cold, frigid. That I wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what? It was your  _ first time _ . He was supposed to go slowly, make sure you were ready, not bloody well berate you for being nervous!”

He turns her to see her reflection in the large mirror leaning up against the wall. She closes her eyes until he says, “Don’t. Don’t look away. Tell me what you see.”

“Dumpy,” she mutters. “Frizzy, dumpy, not good enough.”

But he shakes his head. “Let me tell you what I see. Your hair, this glorious, untamed hair. I’m not even sure how many colors there are in those curls. I tried to count them once in a meeting.”

“You should have been paying attention.”

“Greg was asking questions; it wasn’t important. And stop interrupting me.” He takes one hand and twines a single curl around his fingers. “Gold. Copper. Brown. When the light from your skylight hits you, your hair shifts from brown to a thousand shades, every lock is different. Your eyes, I’ve seen them be curious, commanding, terrifying. But there’s one look – look at yourself – you have when you look at me, a little trusting, a little vulnerable, and that one is just for me. It’s mine. When you look at me that way, do you know what you do to me? One glance, and I’m back at your feet. You own me with that look, Hermione. And this mouth.” He drops her curl, “I fantasized about this mouth before I even liked you.”

She’s silent, staring at him in their reflection.

“I was raised to expect a bride who waited, you know, even if she’d had dozens of men dangling from her fingertips. It’s part of the nearly Victorian mores of my parent’s set. I’m not the slightest bit put off by your inexperience, and I don’t care how long it takes for you to feel at ease with me because I’m in this for forever.” He tugs at the shoulder of her dress. “But I cannot believe for a moment this is comfortable enough to lie down in. Let me help you get it off, and you can wrap up in a giant, fluffy robe, and we can sit on the bed, and you can talk to me about plots and scandals and how we’re going to take over the world.”

She nods, and he starts undoing her dress as she watches him in that mirror, one tiny button at a time, stopping to kiss her back with each new inch of skin exposed. By the time he’s slipping the dress over her hips, she’s lost interest in the robe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize the trope of “Hermione as virgin”, especially combined with “Sex God Draco” can be tiresome and reeks of a rather dated view of women and sexuality. In my defense, I've also written the reverse.
> 
> Edward II probably did not actually die of a proctological exam with a red-hot poker. It’s still a commonly held misconception.


	14. Chapter 14

She’s rearranging the pictures on the table of the cheap muggle flat, pushing them around to see if she can make the connections clearer if she’s got a visual pattern to work with. Theo hands her another pile, fresh from his printer, and leans back to watch her look through them.

“Shaklebolt?” she raises her eyebrows at him when she gets to one of them and he grins at her. 

“Signature and everything.”

“I can’t believe this actually spells out they are seizing property for personal enrichment, that the war’s paid off, and that he signed it. _Signed it_. Merlin, Theo, where did you find this?”

“Percy Weasley’s office.” He spins in his chair and waits for her to find the rest of goodies in this haul.

“And…” she starts sorting the pictures into the piles she has on the table, shoving them around into a new order. “Arthur’s skimming the money, this confirms that, and then it’s going into the orphanage _here._” She puts those two piles next to each other. “And then Percy .. he’s investing in international markets? International _muggle _markets” She looks up at Theo in utter perplexity and he smirks at her.

“He’s playing the market, assuming he’s going to make a killing.” Theo stands up and leans over the table, pushing a third pile into a row. “They plan to reinvest that money into the government farm contracts they’ve steered to their friends, people who are willing to wait for the payout. In theory that means they’ll have more money to grow food, distribute to the masses.”

“Bread and circuses.” She frowns at him.

“And your lovely friends are the circuses.”

“Former friends,” she corrects him. “So, we’ve got illegal asset forfeiture, and embezzlement that takes money from orphans and food resources for the poor, plus the debased coinage? All clearly documented.”

“Pretty much. Of course,” Theo looks at her, “if the work goes their way it’s a brilliant international investment; they could funnel even half of their gains back into the original programs and still look golden.”

“And if the bottom were to fall out of those markets? Or if they were to overextend themselves?”

“Then they lose everything.”

She leans forward on the table, her chin resting in one hand as she studies the piles of photographs. “Then I guess it behooves us to make sure they overextend themselves into unstable markets, doesn’t it, before we out them.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“How was the honeymoon?” Theo joins Draco at what he’s taking to calling ‘this fucking place’ to subtly register his displeasure with the locale. There must, he’s insisted, be some other bar in all of London they can meet at, someplace equally discreet and somewhat less decrepit and sticky. “You know why I don’t like kids?” he’d asked once. “Because they’re sticky. What makes you think I wouldn’t feel the same way about the stick on the tables here?”

“It was fine,” Draco holds a shot glass in his hand; Theo suspects it’s not his first drink of the night. “It was good. It was great. She was great. Everything was great except for the part where I spent the week hiding how much I wanted to kill Weasley and Potter.”

“I take it you figured out what’s her issue around those two?” Theo eyes the waitress with disgust as the woman desultorily wipes down the counter using a filthy rag that just smears the dirt around.

“Yep.” Draco throws back his shot and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “What I can’t figure out is how someone can plot a coup, let us torture some stranger because the damn fool spit on her, agree to marry a man she doesn’t even like for power…”

“I think she likes you.”

“She does _now, _sure. She didn’t when we decided on that plan.” He runs his finger around the edge of the glass, around and around. “How can you do all of those things and still be an emotional wreck over one obvious cretin?”

“Because women are insane. Obviously.”

“You know, I’ve been a bully in my life, and a snob, and really a pretty vicious bastard -”

“You say ‘been’ as if you’ve somehow reformed.”

“Hardly. It’s just… people call us the villains, Theo, and them the heroes. It’s fucked up.”

“We aren’t the villains.” He signals for another round. “We just lost. Doesn’t mean we weren’t on the right side.” Draco shakes his head and stares moodily at the table. There’s a large, puddle-shaped patch of dried dust sticking to an ancient spill and he puts his empty glass in the center of it. Theo rolls his eyes and asks, “Who writes the history, my friend.”

“The victors,” Draco mutters.

“And so, this time around, who’re going to be the heroes?”

“I guess,” Draco takes another shot off the tray the indifferent waitress is holding towards him, “I guess we are.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The photographer hands her the envelope. “These are copies of all the shots I got. What do you want me to do with them?”

Hermione takes the pictures, pulls them out and flips through them rapidly. The one of Æthel is particularly haunting; the ten-year-old stands in a cheap muggle dress and worn trainers and holds a dirty toddler on her hip. Despite her obvious deprivation she’s staring directly at the lens, fierce and unbowed. Not for the first time Hermione wonders whose daughter the girl is, how she ended up alone in the world. “These are,” she struggles for words. “I hate to call them beautiful but in a terrible way they are. They’re so powerful.” She slides them back into the envelope. “Nice work.”

“Thank you,” he smiles at her thinking that the night he’d lifted his camera and taken a shot of her being shoved down in the street had been the luckiest night of his life. He hasn’t missed that, like Draco, she rewards loyalty. First the wedding gig, now this assignment; he knows the work is good. When these shots go public they should help get him out of the miserable world of shooting flower shows and ribbon cuttings, get him some actual respect in his field. “Congratulations on your marriage, by the way. I didn’t want to interrupt your actual day, it seemed unprofessional.”

She laughs. “I don’t think we were that formal that day, but thank you for the consideration. That was nice work too. Maybe not as striking as these,” she shakes the packet in her hand, “but society brides are inherently trifle banal as a subject, I suppose.”

“Still beautiful,” he flatters and she smiles at him with practiced charm before she returns to the less pleasant subject.

“We’re doing some… research… into the funding problems that resulted in what you see there. When the final article is ready to run I’ll let you know and you can decide whether you want your byline to run with them. If you wanted to suppress that for a while, I wouldn’t hold it against you. In the long run you’ll get credit for your work, whatever you decide now.” She bends down to slip the envelope into her bag.

He nods. “You know,” he adds. “Nimue was always my favorite character in the old stories.” Hermione looks up and raises her eyebrows.

“Really?”

“Merlin gets so much more attention but, in the end, she’s the one who mattered. She’s the one who really established Arthur’s reign, coronated him, albeit with a sword instead of a crown. Arthur Pendragon’s reign.”

Hermione shrugs in feigned idleness. “I don’t think monarchy as a system of government is very popular anymore.”

“Then you think wrong,” he states baldly. “The Ministry bungled the First War; the only reason the Dark Lord was beaten was because his curse rebounded off a baby. If it had been up to the Ministry he’d have ruled us all. Second War? Same thing, he was beaten, _again_, by children, including, begging your pardon, you, while the Ministry first claimed nothing was going on and then jailed a bunch of harmless old coots as scapegoats. Now? They can’t even manage peacetime. That orphanage? How everything costs so much more? I think you’ll find people far more interested in returning to a monarchy, assuming they believe it’ll be run reasonably well, than you expect. Another Lady, crowning another Dragon? If things get much worse, they’ll bloody well be rioting in the streets demanding it.”

Hermione weighs her words. “Photo-journalism is always a powerful tool. I would, of course – outside the orphanage project – never suggest what a journalist should or should not cover though I do think your talents are wasted shooting book signings and the like and I would always encourage people I admire to pursue their passions. I suspect your interests lie outside the society pages, that you’d do well covering meatier stories.”

He shifts on his feet and looks at the ground, at her hand, at the sign on the brick wall behind her head; he’s not used to this world of talking around what you mean and is afraid he’ll somehow get it wrong. “I’ll think about that. I would love to shoot hard stories, stories that mean something.” He moves his bag to his other shoulder. “I liked the water lilies you picked for your wedding bouquet, by the way.”

“Thank you,” she smiles at him again, a quick predatory look hidden almost immediately under a polite nod. “I’ll look for your work in the future, then?”

“Indeed,” and he slips away, recognizing he’s been dismissed, already wondering what governmental abuses he can seek out, bring into the open.

. . . . . . . . . .

Pansy pulls the morning post towards her and flips through it: junk, junk, invitation, junk, note. She slides her fingernail under the seal, noting she needs to get her manicure redone, and starts to read. 

_Would you please start a series that pushes Harry as a desirable candidate on the basis of his moral authority. It’s not his experience, the lack of which you are more than welcome to dwell on, but his standing as an unblemished icon of the light, that makes him a suitable future Minister. Virtue and pedestals and all that. Arrange to publish anonymously as people might have noticed you at the wedding. Also, please make a list for me of all the properties that need to be restored to their proper owners in order of importance. I trust your judgment. _

Pansy smiles and starts ripping the note into smaller and smaller pieces. “With pleasure,” she murmurs. “With pleasure, Lady.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“You don’t really expect me to be sympathetic, do you?” Hermione has the bad manners to sound amused.

“Some compassion for my head might be nice, yes.” Draco looks through the cabinets trying to find a hangover remedy.

“This isn’t my fault. He was already drunk when I met him,” Theo calls out from the couch where he’s going through the series of orphanage pictures.

“Why is Theo at our flat this early in the morning, anyway?” 

“It’s not early. It’s 11:30. Daphne’s here too. Meeting. Remember?” Hermione leans up against the counter and smirks at him. “I think they like meeting here instead of my old place because there’re more places to sit.”

“Morning, Draco,” Daphne chirps from the living room to his visible grimace. Theo smothers a grin at her overwhelming, purposeful perkiness and the sheer misery it’s causing Draco. “I love your flat.” 

“Why is she trying to kill me,” he hisses at Hermione as he searches in vain through about cupboard. “What did I do to her?”

“I think she might be amusing herself at your expense,” Hermione pulls a bottle out and holds it towards him. “I think this is what you’re looking for.” He reaches for it and she pulls it away. “Say ‘please’.”

“And here I always thought you were a nice person,” he makes a swipe for the bottle and she snorts, stepping backwards, closer to the sink where she pantomimes pouring it out.

“You thought nothing of the kind.”

“_Please_ give me that potion,” he wheedles and she laughs and holds it out to him, yanking it back one more time before finally handing it over. 

If Hermione’s old flat was a dump, Draco’s – now theirs – is a modernist delight. It has almost as much light as her previous place but it also has furniture it’s simply and tastefully decorated in greys and creams, courtesy of Narcissa, and is coolly inviting without feeling cluttered. Theo has pictures spread out on the table by the couch, Daphne’s sorting through piles of paper and making notes on a pad of paper. 

“What are we doing today,” Draco sets the bottle down and glares at his grinning wife. “You are _not_ a nice person, by the way.”

“Ah, but I’m _your_ not-nice person,” she teases. He rolls his eyes and mutters something about the myriad ways he could stop her mouth. “Company,” she chides and adds, “and we’re working today. Daphne’s going to write the orphanage expose. We want to time it to appear shortly before Astoria outs Harry.”

Theo holds up one shot, the picture of Æthel she’d been struck earlier, and asks, “Who’s this.” 

“Not sure,” Hermione sighs. “Death Eater’s daughter, most likely, but, like most of the children, no one’s claimed her. If she had a family to go to, she’d be there.” Theo studies the shot, watching the toddler on the girl’s hip squirm in an endless repetition while Æthel herself stares out at him. “Why?”

He slides the photo back onto the table. “Lead with that image,” is all he says. 

Draco walks over and picks it up, settling down onto the couch. “I wouldn’t want to cross her,” he mutters, looking at the girl. “I think she’d take my head off.” 

Hermione leans over his shoulder. “She’s a nice kid. Smart. Does what needs doing. She’s too old for her years, of course, but she’s a survivor. I wouldn’t bet against that one.”

“What do you plan to do with them,” Theo’s asking. Daphne has handed him a draft of her article and he’s marking it up. “I mean, once we use them to outrage the public and all.” He crosses a line out. “You can’t say this, Daph, we aren’t releasing that bit until the economics reveal.”

“When will that be,” the woman’s sucking on the end of a pencil and Theo reaches over and pulls it out of her mouth.

“I think those things may be toxic.” He crosses out another line in her draft. “Blaise and Luna are working on a project to bait that particular hook.”

“Luna?” Daphne makes a face. “Am I the only one who thinks that’s a bad idea?”

“No,” mutters Theo just as Draco says, “Hardly.”

Hermione huffs out a sigh but ignores all of them. “Adoption or fosterage would be my choice. There just aren’t that many kids and, at least if Astoria’s midwife’s hints are any indication, there are plenty of pureblood families with fertility issues looking for babies to adopt.”

“These kids aren’t babies,” Theo objects.

“No, but they’re mostly pureblood, or at least half; muggle-borns tended not to lose their whole families in the war. You want babies, you’ll need to settle for muggle-born.” She shrugs. “Assuming that project gets anywhere. Can we stay focused on this one for today.”

“I think we should add research into those would-be adoptive families,” Daphne makes a note on the next page of her pad. “I think we should have a list ready before the article goes out, people we trust enough to contact directly about either the orphanage or changeling project.”

Hermione shakes her head. “It’s a good idea, but limit it to the orphans for now. We can’t institute the changeling idea until we’re actually in power.”

“Will do,” Daphne crosses ‘changelings’ out.

“I want her,” Theo taps the photo. Everyone turns to look at him and he says, seriously. “I need an heir, even in my current post-war looted state, and I don’t have any intention of marrying some brain-dead pureblooded bint to get one. She’s old enough I’ll have missed the godawful toddler stage. I’ll go meet her, talk to her, but…”

Hermione’s around the couch and hugging him tightly before anyone else can react and he’s squawks out “Breathing, Lady, I need to breathe to adopt the kid” before she lets go.

“My niece,” she grins as she holds up the picture again. 

“From abandoned Death Eater brat to near royalty in one fell swoop,” Draco looks at Hermione. “Are you planning on us taking one in too?”

But she shakes her head. “We have to keep the succession line clear.”

“How’s that going, anyway?” Daphne asks. “You know, you should be taking pre-natal vitamins even before you conceive for optimal fetal health.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise quickly peruses the papers Luna has printed up for them while he waits for the water to boil; there’s a mock of one section of a popular British expatriate publication with an article touting the strength of the economic miracle that is Greece. Another one-off duplicates an American financial journal analyzing under-utilized investments; it dwells heavily on the wonder of emerging Russian markets.

Luna looks at Blaise over the paper she’s reading, an actual paper rather than one of her fabrications. She sits cross-legged wholly naked in a sunbeam. “Did you read about the woman who appeared at St. Mungo’s?”

“Women appear at St. Mungo’s all the time. Apparition – you just magically appear.” Water ready, he first brews and then pours each of them some tea; one of the nicer things about Luna, he has discovered, is she doesn’t object to long periods of silence, especially if he is making her tea. “Was something especially interesting about this one?” he finally adds.

“Mmm. She seems to have been attacked by something that ate her memories.”

“Beg pardon?” Blaise raises his brows and hands her the tea. “Be careful, that’s hot.”  
  
“She has no idea who she is, how she got there, or anything she’s done, pretty much ever. She’s tabula rasa. Probably didn’t wear her fairy stone.”

“Her what?” Blaise settles down next to the naked blonde and starts to run his fingers through her hair as he reads over her shoulder. Sure enough, their little spy was admitted to the hospital suffering severe amnesia and an apparent brain bleed. 

“If you go into the fairy lands without wearing one, when you come out all your memories of that time are gone. She must have been there a while. Time is not linear with fairies” Luna pauses to sip her tea. “Or devoured by monsters. Also a possibility.”

Blaise kisses her neck. “Perhaps I can devour you?”

As he sets his tea cup carefully out of the way and proceeds to work on that idea he wonders when he can meet with Theo. Today? No. Tomorrow, maybe. Definitely soon. Something needs to be done about Luna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm stopping proofreading things before porting them over from FFN. Sorry. It was just super tedious and I hated it.


	15. Chapter 15

Daphne makes the final edits to the nasty little limerick she’s been working on all week and eyes it with satisfaction. She’ll send it off to Pansy, who plans to imperious the typesetter to get into the next edition of the _Prophet_. Within a day the underground will be repeating it and, assuming all goes according to plan, people will be snickering about the uselessness of the Order for weeks to come. When this one peters out, she’ll slip another one into the ether, and then another one, until no one remembers when they first started to think of the Order as incompetent and avaricious, until it becomes common, unquestioned knowledge. Let Theo explain complicated economic improprieties; she knows a vicious rhyme will spread and color people’s perceptions far more thoroughly than any article in a financial journal.

_A Phoenix once came to Pawtucet…_

Let those light bastards take her wealth, shame her family. She’ll laugh last.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“I can’t believe she actually married him,” Ginny mutters, shoving the paper, folded over to the society section, across the breakfast table to Harry.

“I already knew,” he shrugs and slides the paper back to her. At her shocked look he adds, “I went. I wasn’t invited. She made that pretty clear when I spoke to her one day – Ron and I tried to talk her out of it, to be honest - but it was in a public park so I went and watched the ceremony.”

“Why?” she wrinkles her nose in disgust. “She’s not exactly a friend anymore, hasn’t been for years, and marrying _Malfoy_? It’s like a bad joke or something, or one of those awful paperback romance novels my mum reads.”

Harry shakes his head. “I would have sworn it was some kind of trick of his, something manipulative and nasty, but, Merlin, Ginny, you should have seen him. He stared at her like she was the first ray of sun he’d seen in a lifetime of clouds. She looked cool and detached but him, it was downright scary how much he hung on her every smile. I think he’d walk into hell just to get her a stick she fancied.”

“So?” Ginny spoons some eggs into her mouth. “It’s still Malfoy. He’s a prat and a dick and an elitist. What’s he doing with our poor little muggle Hermione? I can’t believe it’s really all about true love, however besotted he may seem.”

Harry snorts and reaches for the marmalade. “Hardly that. It’s just…” he starts to spoon out of the jar onto his toast, “You know, everyone thinks of Hermione as being this goody-two-shoes, but she’s not. She can be pretty ruthless when she decides it suits her. We wouldn’t have won if she weren’t. I just think – what if I was wrong about him using her? What if it’s the other way ‘round – what if she’s the one using him for something?” He stares at the toast, now neatly covered in the marmalade, and shakes his head. “I just can’t figure out what she’d want. She’s already turned down money and fame. I thought she just decided she preferred a quiet, ordinary life; I don’t know what she’d want that she’d need him for, that she couldn’t have gotten with us.” 

Ginny shrugs and waves over a house-elf to take her plate. “What’s your point?”

“I just wouldn’t want to be in the way of whatever she cares about enough to marry Malfoy – to bloody well enthrall the man for - to get. He’d probably kill anyone who looked at her cross-eyed, and she – we all call her the brightest witch of our generation and, Gin, it’s not an exaggeration. Between them, she’s going to get whatever she’s after.”

Ginny laughs and rises from the table. “I think you overestimate her. She gave up every chance she had after the war to be, what? An assistant to the deputy rune translator or something? And now to marry a man who lost more money and prestige than I even knew it was possible to have. She couldn’t hack it in the wizarding world, my love. It’s sad, but true. She was a good help to you in the war, and I suppose it’s sweet you went to see her marry that prat, but she’s just not able to keep up anymore. Some people just can’t. It’s a huge shift, I’m sure, to go from one world to another. Not everyone handles it as well as you did.” She kisses him on the cheek and heads towards the door, adding before she leaves the room, “Of course, I’m biased because I’ll never forgive her for leaving Ron. After she took off he became… wild.”

Harry watches Ginny leave. He knows she’s meeting friends for lunch, going shopping, visiting her mother. He thinks about Hermione, cast aside by Molly, and wonders if the Weasleys hadn’t turned their backs on her would his old friend have been so ready to slip into Malfoy’s apparently waiting arms or would she’d have been out shopping with Ginny today instead. The scar on the back of his hand taunts him. ‘I must not tell lies.’ Lies of commission. Lies of omission. He’d long ago lost the simple purity he’d felt as a righteous seventeen-year-old fighting evil; adulthood had arrived with its endless small compromises. He pulls the photo of Hermione in her wedding dress back across the table and looks at her, smiling at him, and whispers, “What are you doing, Hermione, and why is Malfoy helping you?” 

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Ron rarely reads the morning paper but today he’s made an exception to enjoy another one of the _Prophet’s_ glowing opinion pieces about Harry. “Damn right,” he mutters to himself, shoving another scone into his mouth as he sees the words ‘only a person of impeccable, unquestioned virtue can be trusted to lead our world after the last two wars. What we need now isn’t experience but someone with a keen sense of right and wrong.’

He flips the page, brushing crumbs to the floor with the other hand, only to meet the article about Hermione’s wedding. He can’t believe it; the stupid bint had actually gone and married Malfoy. What a horror show, and such a ratty wedding too. He snorts out a laugh at the idea of that smug bastard getting married just like normal people, like _poor_ people. And poor Hermione, tying herself to someone who makes her get married that way; are those _cinder blocks _behind her in that photograph? He looks through all the pictures, fascinated and disgusted. What he finally finds even worse that the cinder block bridal shot, even worse then the picture of her and that ferret dancing, is the shot of Nott – that bloody ponce Theodore Nott – getting ready to walk her down the aisle. She and Nott are sharing a look the lays bare what’s clearly become a strong friendship. She trusts the tosser. The more fool her, he thinks. He’s regretted the way their relationship ended for years but now he thinks he’s clearly better off without her, that she’d deserved everything.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Blaise casually leaves one pseudo-paper, the one touting the wonders of investment in Russia, in the coffee area he knows Percy Weasley visits. He puts the other, this one singing the virtues of Greece, into a pile of inter-office mail destined for Arthur Weasley’s desk. Luna may be nuts, and she may be dangerous, but he has to admit she did an excellent job printing up fake papers.

Here, fishy fishy, he thinks to himself. 

. . . . . . . . . .

“She did what?” Molly Weasley stops, fork halfway to her mouth.

“I take it you haven’t looked at the paper yet today?” Ginny arches her eyebrows at her mother and takes a sip from her wine glass. “Hermione Granger married Draco Malfoy, a simple little ceremony in some grotty park. They took a brief honeymoon and now they’re back, doing whatever it is they do.”

“She’s the assistant to the deputy rune guy.” Lavender chimes in. “Remember when I was dating him?”

“Wasn’t he the swot who always wanted you to read his poetry?”

“That’s the one.” Lavender snickers. “Which he wrote _in runes_. As if.”

“What does he do?” Ginny stabs her fork into her tenderloin and slashes at the meat with her knife. “Malfoy, I mean.”

“Nothing, as far as I know,” Lavender shrugs. “Sulks about losing the war, I suppose. Stares at himself in the mirror?” She shoves her braised cabbage around the plate, nudging it this way and then that with her fork then adds, “If what Ron said about little miss perfect is true, what he’s _not_ doing is having great sex.”

Ginny starts to cough and for a few moments both of the other women watch her. When she’s regained composure she takes a quick sip of wine before saying, “Merlin, Lav, don’t say things like that when I’ve got food in my mouth. I nearly choked!”

“I never really trusted that girl,” Molly Weasley states, giving both women a quelling look. “Sly. Very sly.” She goes back to her lunch. “It certainly doesn’t surprise me that if she couldn’t have Harry or Ron she’d go for some would-be aristocrat. Sly and deep.”

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“I need a spell.” 

Blaise looks up at Hermione, rises to catch her fingers in his hand, press his lips to her hand. “Lady. What can I find for you?”

“I want something that will make a person more susceptible to alcohol.”

“Something to make a cheap drunk?” He reaches for a book behind him but she’s shaking her head.

“More than that. I want the person to become more easily drunk, but also more easily addicted, more prone to take comfort in a bottle.”

“So, I take it this can’t just be a potion I dump in a glass?”

“Needs to be targeted to the individual and preferably something we can do from afar.”

“Can I tell Theo?” At her questioning look he sighs. “My mother specialized in tricks to make herself more appealing, more desirable. You want a rare spell to make a specific man decide he wants to marry you, will everything to you? My home library is the place to go. Nott, however, he has a wider array of black arts books and no interfering mother to ask why we’re reading them.” He pauses. “It will likely require blood. Things designed to be targeted to an individual usually do.”

“Get me the spell first. We’ll get the blood.”

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Draco sits behind Hermione on the bed, finger-combing out her curls as she reads letters to the editor. She’s taken to tallying how many of the anti-Order screeds are plants and how many are just spontaneous expressions of frustration and today’s ‘everything is so expensive since the war, I blame the Order’ letter didn’t come from one of theirs. 

“I love it when we don’t even have to work to get people riled, they just rile all on their own.” She slouches back against him and he plucks the paper out of her lap and sets it to the side before wrapping his arms around her. 

“Is Daphne’s poem making the rounds?”

“Oh yes. I saw the last line, obscenity and all, tacked up on a board in the lunchroom this morning. It was gone by the afternoon, but popular opinion is slowly shifting.” She lies back and feels the curve of his body beneath hers. “Pansy’s articles on how incredibly wonderful Harry Potter is and how his unadulterated virtue – I specifically asked her to manage to include the word ‘unadulterated’ – makes him the perfect ministry candidate seem to be grating one people’s nerves too. I overheard two people at lunch talking about how ‘it’s not that he’s young that bothers me, it’s that he’s so callow – nothing but playtime since the war.’” She laces her fingers through his.

“How’s Astoria?”

“Cooking. It’ll be time for the grand reveal soon enough.”

“Did you really get Pansy to work in ‘unadulterated’? Why bother? No one’s going to notice that wordplay.” 

“I will. It amuses me.” Hermione sits for a bit and listens to him breathe, lets her fingers twine in and around his. “I really, she pauses. “I really appreciate this.”

“You’re being cryptic.”

She pulls herself forward and twists to face him, leaning on one arm while slipping the other hand back into his. “This. You. Us, whatever we are.”

“Married.” He shakes his head. “We’re married. And you ‘appreciate’ me. Be still my beating heart.”

She grins at him while continuing to twist his fingers in and around her own. “I didn’t even expect to like you, don’t be greedy.”

Pulling that hand, those twisting fingers to his mouth, he murmurs silkily, “Surely you aren’t under the delusion that I’m a modest and humble man, content to settle for second best? When I have the very best sitting here in my bed? I thought you knew me better than that.” He pulls her fingers into his mouth and slowly sucks on them while watching her eyes, running his tongue around her knuckles, finally scraping his teeth along her skin before sliding back. Her can feel her pulse starting to race in the wrist he’s still got pressed against his hand and her pupils are dilating. “I’m very, very greedy.” With his other hand he starts to trace the lines of her face, trailing his fingers along her brow, across her cheekbone, down the edge of her jaw. “Brilliant, beautiful woman.” He takes his thumb and pulls it along her lips, jerking it back when she goes to bite him. “Play nice!”

She smirks unrepentantly and moves to straddle him; she’s got one knee on either side of his hips as he leans up against the headboard. “And why would I do that?” she asks him as he slips both hands under her and pulls her tightly against him.

“Because,” he whispers in her ear, “you want me to be nice to you.”

She wraps her arms on each side of him, snagging her fingers in his hair and holding on. “Nice? But I thought you were treacherous,” she runs her tongue around his lips, then leans nips at the bottom one where he’s opened his mouth in a gasp. “Dangerous. Now you tell me you’ll be nice. What’s a woman to believe?”

He starts kissing down the line of her throat, then runs his tongue back up to her jaw and starts gently biting at her, slowly working his way up towards her ear. “I’m only nice to you,” he breathes. “But if you let me I think I can be very nice indeed.”

“Mmm,” she leans her head to the side a bit, giving him more access to her skin. “I understand you’re my favorite.”

“Oh yes,” he murmurs, “And I do so want to make sure you properly appreciate me, Lady.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

Narcissa Malfoy holds a note from Miss Parkinson in one hand, an invitation to a baby shower, if a note emphasizing the need for absolute discretion could possibly qualify as an invitation. Astoria Greengrass, notably absent for months, distinctly unmarried, would appear to be having a baby. ‘She’s miserable,’ Pansy had written. ‘Her own mother won’t speak to her. Hermione would kill me - probably literally – if she knew I were writing to you but if Astoria needs someone, someone not her own age, to pardon her fall from grace. Please come and act as if it’s a normal shower. It would mean a lot.’

Pansy assumes she, Narcissa, knows something, something Astoria’s own mother clearly doesn’t. How fascinating.

She looks at the _Prophet_ in front of her. It’s an unusually interesting issue with dirty limericks, wedding pictures from an affair she regards with the smug pleasure evoked by successfully pulling off a complex bit of social engineering, and an article about Harry Potter that had made her feel ill the first time she’d read it, then thoughtful the second time. Now, holding Astoria’s shower invitation, she can’t help but laugh at the word choice. “Unadulterated”. So that’s how her new daughter-in-law plans to remove Potter from the board. Ah, Draco, she thinks. You chose very well indeed.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Hermione opens the folded note, tucked into her pile of books. _ Fishy took the bait. _ She wonders which bait. Will she be sending Blaise to Russia or Greece? 


	16. Chapter 16

Draco pulls another old book towards him and rubs his eyes. Paleography was never his best subject, and some of these old spell books are nearly indecipherable. Text after text, miserably faded handwriting taunts him with spells that aren’t quite right, not even right enough to be tweaked into something that will suit. “C’mon,” he mutters. “I just want to turn a stick of wood into a dead baby, why is that so hard.”

“Maybe you should take a break?” Hermione looks up from the couch where she’s reading economic statistics. “Maybe I should take a break. If I read one more thing from Percy Weasley justifying debased coinage I may scream.”

“I’m not making any progress, Hermione. You want a change that’s undetectable down to a cellular level, and that doesn’t change back, and I just can’t figure out how to do it. Getting the change is easy enough but keeping it in place for an undetermined period of time – I just can’t figure it out.” He buries his face in his hands in frustration. “I’m failing you, at the one specific thing you’ve asked of me. I can’t take a break until I’ve got at least an idea of where I should be looking.”

“Dinner.” Hermione stands up, tosses her folder of purloined memos to the side and stretches; he looks at her in exasperation. 

“Didn’t I just tell you I can’t take a break? I’m stuck, well and truly stuck.”

“And here I thought you were mine, going to take care of me, that you were my favorite tool?” She’s pulled her wand out and is running it through her fingers, staring seriously at him. “Don’t make me hurt you just to get food. Take a break and come get some dinner with me.”

“I can’t,” he turns back towards the book only to feel her wand point touch the base of his skull, ever so slightly, then trace along his shoulder, down his arm. He inhales sharply and holds very still, locked in place.

“It was not a request.”

“Hermione.” He pauses, then tries again, “Lady…”

“I am very fond of you, you know, and while having you bound to me is..”

“Wait.” He interrupts her. “What did you say?”

“That I wanted dinner.” She’s moved from dangerous to just annoyed but he’s not paying enough attention to notice that.

“No, just now. Bound. Bound to you,” he starts flipping through the manuscript with no respect for the condition of the pages. “Yes!” Spinning out of the chair he scoops her up and kisses her. “You’re a genius. I’m a genius. We bind the transformation to a living person – I suppose an animal might work too – and we can use their life force to keep the change stable; it needs to be a three-way spell, not a two-way. A person could just release the binding when it didn’t matter anymore, an animal we’d presumably have to kill. I’ve got it!” She’s laughing at him as she watches his mind race down the paths of spell creation. This is the man she’s come to adore, the steel-trap mind, the ruthless pragmatism. She’s still hungry, though. 

“Can we get dinner _now_,” she asks.

“Wait,” he teases, “that sounded like a request.”

“Don’t make me go all Dark Lady on you just to get something to eat.” She stamps her foot, still laughing.

“You, my sweet, can go all Dark Lady on me anytime you want.” And, as he grabs her and spins her around she thinks, again, that this is such a lovely, unexpected bonus.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Blaise groans internally when he sees Pansy. Yes, she’s a dedicated ideologue, and, yes, she’s doing her bit, though writing gossip columns isn’t exactly the hardest task ever, but she’s just so unbearable. “Shopping?” he looks at her bags. 

“We’re having a small shower for Tory.” She waves him to a seat across from hers and, smiling at her, he takes it. 

“She’s well, then?”

“She’s miserably fat and hating her life. If wishes could kill, the father of that baby would be dead a dozen times over; if she goes late I think she might try to reach up and drag the baby out with her own hands. But, she’s healthy, the baby’s healthy. Still – “ Pansy signals for a waitress, “ – I doubt she thought she’d ever be shunned or hiding out in a remote cabin with only Greg and Daphne for company. And Narcissa Malfoy, of all people.” 

“Just coffee, thanks,” Blaise smiles at the waitress, whose eyes widen slightly when she recognizes him but who makes no overt greeting. “Is she having second thoughts?”

“Noooo,” Pansy draws out the word, and bends over to fish through a bag. “Isn’t this the cutest thing ever?” She’s holding out some kind of minuscule baby outfit and, recognizing his cue, Blaise says, “You’ve always had great taste, Pans.”

Taking his coffee from the waitress, he eyes Pansy as she puts her, well, whatever that baby thing was, back down. “I’m serious, Pans. Is Tory okay? Do we have to worry she won’t do it?”

The other woman shakes her head, tears a piece off the croissant she’s ordered. “No, she’s totally committed, especially now that Narcissa’s been reassuring her that she won’t be banned from all society forever. I think she’s looking forward to that bastard’ Potter’s fall in some really personal ways. Turns out he’s not the nicest date ever, if you get my meaning.” Popping the bread in her mouth she adds, “Men are pigs, Blaise.”

“Says the woman talking with her mouth full.”

She snorts. “If I have to write one more glowing bit of hagiography about him, knowing what I know from Tory, I may be ill. She wasn’t the first, you know, not even the first to get knocked up; he’s just convinced the rest of the women to end their pregnancies. We may get some bonus women coming out of the woodwork after she outs him.” She rips off another bite of her pastry. “I wonder if Ginny knows. I mean, how could she not, but people are amazingly good at not seeing unpleasant truths.”

“That they are,” Blaise rises and murmurs, “With your gracious permission, Pans, I should be off being productive. Please send Tory my love and best wishes.”

“I will.” She looks up at him, “And, Blaise? Be careful of Luna.”

“I am,” he looks at her seriously. “We all are.”

“I know someone who’s not.”

“You can take the girl out of Griffindor,” he mutters. “But you can’t get the bloody Griffindor out of the girl.”

Pansy rips off another piece of bread. “I think you should force the issue.”

Blaise nods.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Ginny cuts her hand when she’s reaching across the bar for another bottle of champagne. “Fuck!” she looks at the girl behind the counter. “What kind of a dump is this? Broken glass on the counter? I could have you shut down!”

“I’m so sorry,” the girl babbles, grabbing a very clean towel and dabbing at the blood oozing from Ginny’s palm. “Please don’t shut us down, miss. Please. We’s all depending on these jobs!” A waitress swoops in from nowhere and grabs the offending shard of glass, another is wiping the counter down with another immaculate towel and filling Ginny’s flute with the champagne. “On the house, miss, the whole night!” the first girl is still babbling on. 

“I should think so,” Ginny finally turns away from the trio of hovering staff and smiles back at Harry, who leans in to kiss her.

In the backroom the barkeeper tucks the bloody towel and the shard of glass into a plastic bag, attaches the bundle to the waiting owl. “Off you go,” she whispers.

“To the Lady’s rise,” the waitress murmurs and the other two women quietly agree.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“Hi,” Harry pulls out the chair and joins Luna at her table. She’s got papers spread out in front of her and looks up at him with a smile.

“Let me move these things. I’m doing a new translation of the _Mabinogion__. Have you ever read it? Of course, it’s impossible to really get the feel of the original Welsh when you move it to another language but I think…”_

_“Yeah.” Harry hands her the papers from his side of the table and she stacks them into neat piles. “That sounds really interesting Luna. I’ll have to read it when it’s done.”_

_She smiles blandly at him. “I’ll be sure to send you a copy.”_

_“Thanks.” He waves over the waitress and orders some coffee. “Do you want anything?”_

_“I’m good, thanks.” She holds up an empty cup of tea. “It’s nice to see you, Harry. It’s been a while.”_

_He taps his fingers on the table. “You’re close to Hermione still, aren’t you? I mean, you were the bridesmaid at her wedding.”_

_“I suppose.” Luna shrugs. “We have some common interests.”_

_Harry leans forward, “What?”_

_“Translation.” Luna smiles again. “Not that Welsh and runes really have that much in common as languages of course, but the theories and issues of translation certainly cross over. Did you know that – “_

_Harry cuts her off. “What is she doing?”_

_‘Right now?” Luna looks confused. “I assume she’s at work. She’s found a really interesting volume on inheritance in the 6th century that has some implications for modern common law, especially as it applies to familial business structures. She’s been working to get that translated. Some of the vocalic indicators are unclear, however, and - ”_

_“I mean with Malfoy.” Harry takes his cup from the waitress who flicks a glance at Luna. The blonde woman sits and shakes her head, almost undetectably, and the waitress seems to relax a little._

_“Can I get you two anything else?” she asks. _

_“No, everything’s okay,” Luna fishes some money from her purse. “Let me get your drink, Harry.”_

_Once the waitress walks away Luna leans back into her chair and starts to twirl her hair around her finger. “I assume she and Draco do things reasonably similar to what Blaise and I do. Though,” she bites her lip, “I doubt Draco does that thing with his tongue Blaise is so good at.”_

_Harry looks horrified. “You’re… dating… Blaise Zabini?”_

_“Oh, I wouldn’t call it dating.” Luna shrugs. “We’re having sex. He’s quite good.”_

_Harry shakes his head and squints his eyes tightly closed before opening them again, as if he could wipe the image of Luna and Blaise from his mind. “Look, Luna,” Harry leans forward, “You’d tell me if Hermione and Malfoy were up to something, wouldn’t you?”_

_Luna blinks at him, then frowns. “No.”_

_“I… what?”_

_“I really don’t think their sex life is any of your business.” Luna starts to slide her notebooks into a large bag at her feet. “Though Hermione seems happy enough so maybe Draco does know about that thing with the tongue. I did tell her about it just in case.” She smiles what she thinks of as ‘my patented dreamy smile.’ “It should be common knowledge.”_

_“I really don’t care about Zabini’s tongue,” Harry groans._

_“Then,” Luna says reasonably, “Why are you asking?”_

Harry shakes his head. “I wasn’t. Trust me. What are you doing with him, anyway? I thought he was a bit of a … player. You’re a nice girl, what would you want with him?”

“The tongue.” Luna nods. “I’ve found that men with experience are a lot more fun. Plus, he’s got an amazing library and he’s interested in translation theory, or at least he makes a reasonable effort to fake it. And I’m not as nice as you think, Harry. Not if ‘nice’ means ‘shrinking violet’.”

“I’m just…are you sure he’s not using you?”

She looks at him, very seriously. “Blaise isn’t a monster and, even if he were, I’m perfectly capable of being responsible for my own heart, along with other parts of my body. He’s no Grendel, tearing my arms off, dragging me down under the lake to some kind of lair. ” She frowns at one of her pages and, pulling out a pencil makes a quick note. “He’s quite a decent bloke, actually, if still a little caught up in old divisions.”

“So,” Harry mutters, “Will I at least get an invitation to _your _wedding?”

“Wedding,” Luna tips her head to the side and considers him. “Why would I be having one of those?”

“Ummm… the tongue?”

Luna’s laugh rings out before she claps her hands over her mouth and shakes silently. “Oh, Harry. I have no intention of getting married. I thought it was women whose thoughts jumped from admiration to love to matrimony, not, well, not yours. He’s delightful. He’s clever, creative. He’s wonderful to look at, especially naked. But… we’re both just having fun; well, I’m having fun and he’s made no complaints so I assume he must be as well. I don’t need true love or completion or anything like that.” She pauses, then asks, tapping her pencil on her nose. “Why are you so interested in Hermione and Draco, anyway?”

“I just,” he runs his hand thorough his hair and shoves his glasses up, “I think she’s up to something.”

“Sweet Harry.” Luna sighs. “We’re all up to something.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione admits to herself, as she’s shoving her wand into Blaise’s neck, that she really had brought this on herself. She’s both encouraged initiative and hasn’t properly nipped the boys’ paranoia about Luna in the proverbial bud. Still, she hadn’t expected to find them holding the woman hostage in her old flat, demanding proof of her loyalty. 

Draco had immediately backed off when she’d walked in; one look at her face and he’d tossed his wand down, held his hands up, and flattened himself against the wall. She’d immobilized Theo with one quick flick of her wand before hurtling herself at Blaise and forcing him down to his knees.

His expression indicates, as she glares down at him, that he’s beginning to recognize he might have miscalculated.

“So,” Hermione’s voice lacks all inflection. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain what is going on here.”

“We hadn’t done anything,” he’s trying to maintain eye contact. “We were waiting for you, I swear.”

“That’s funny. I wouldn’t call disarming and holding an ally – a close and trusted ally – at wand point ‘not anything.’” She jams her own wand harder into his neck. “I’ll do you the honor of assuming you had a good reason for this cock up. A good reason you will now explain to me.”

Luna’s retrieved her own wand and pulled a notebook from her bag. “I assume,” she says, “that the underground network tipped him off I had tea with Harry today.” A quick rummage in her bag yields a dictionary and as she’s settling down in what is still the room’s only chair she adds, “He’s weirdly interested in your sex life, by the way. Harry, I mean. I think he and Ginny might be having problems.”

Hermione throws her a conspiratorial grin and says, “If they aren’t yet, they will be soon.”

Luna raises her eyebrows and asks, “Just about ready to go public with the baby?”

“As soon as she’s born,” Hermione agrees while the boys all stare at the two women. “Honestly,” Hermione pulls her wand back and smacks Blaise across the face with it so hard the sound makes both other men flinch. “Am I doomed to be always surrounded by people who think I’m an idiot? Luna,” she turns to the woman. “Tell me why a woman showed up at St. Mungo’s obliviated recently.”

Luna’s bent over her translation and doesn’t look up. “You had Draco wipe her mind after torturing her. She was planning on turning us all in.” She turns a page in her dictionary. “Welsh has a lot of vowels.”

“Is that a problem for you?” 

“Well,” Luna considers. “I find it makes pronunciation something I have to think about which slows down my reading. I mean, ‘w’ is a vowel.” Draco chokes down a kind of half laugh and Luna looks up at him, surprised. “Oh. That. Well, I’m glad I didn’t have to watch, and once I knew why Pansy was so determined to keep me talking at a pub I found the whole night kind of amusing. It’s hardly what I’d call nice. Still, sometimes monsters are necessary; you don’t fight tyranny, not even that of the bureaucrat, by doing embroidery. Knitting, maybe, but not embroidery.”

“So,” Hermione turns back to Blaise who has turned an unattractive shade of grey. “Now it’s your turn to explain yourself.”

“It’s the things like the knitting,” he whispers. “She’s so vague, how can we trust her? Then meeting with Potter. Please,” he closes his eyes. “just… read her again. Hurt me if you have to, I’ll take any consequences you think I deserve but, please, just… I’m - ”

Hermione looks at him with disgust. “It’s not vague at all. It’s a reference to _Tale of Two Cities_.”

“He probably hasn’t read it,” Luna offers. “He’s a little weak on muggle literature.”

Hermione rubs her forehead. “What am I supposed to do with you, Blaise? Theo? I realize you have a residual bias against people on the other side last time, but this is _this time_. Maybe I haven’t been totally clear; we are not setting up an oligarchy but a dictatorship and you, Blaise, you are not the dictator. You are welcome, in council, to give me your opinion and argue with me, but when I make a decision I expect you to bloody well follow it. Luna,” she turns back to the other woman. “What do you think the consequences of the papers you printed up will be?”

“Presumably economic destabilization.” Luna frowns at something in her book before looking up. “_Allwedd arian a egyr pob clo.”_

“Shit like that is why we’re all uncomfortable with her,” Draco mutters from the wall.

“’Money is the key that opens all locks’.” Luna smiles at him.

“Just because you can’t keep up with her,” Hermione snaps, “doesn’t mean she’s disloyal or dangerous. I’d think your own mother would have taught you that much.” She kicks Blaise’s wand across the floor before turning back to Luna. “Don’t move, Blaise. I can guarantee you will not like the results if you do.” She takes Luna’s chin and looks into the other woman’s eyes. All three men watch as she shifts through Luna’s thoughts, taking her time to sort through layers of metaphor, shifting languages and sudden jaunts into speculation. “What did Harry want?” She finally asks. “In your opinion.”

“He’s figured out something is going on beyond how much Draco adores you but he’s not sure what,” Luna shrugs. “He wants me to tell him, of course. I steered the conversation to sex because it made him uncomfortable. He seemed to find the idea I was having meaningless sex just for fun particularly disquieting; I had no idea he was so conservative. That was a bit depressing. Let me know if you’d like me to feed him false information. Or true information. That could be fun, too. People are most easily deceived with truth.”

“Meaningless?” Blaise almost squeaks as Luna asks, “Can I go back to my translation now?” Hermione starts to laugh.

“Oh, was that more honesty than you wanted?” She turns back to the man. “Maybe you shouldn’t have dragged your quasi-girlfriend to my flat at wand point and threatened her if you didn’t want to find out she only liked you for your body and some thing you apparently do with your tongue. For that matter, maybe you and Theo shouldn’t have cooked up a little ‘watch Luna’ plan that involved you sleeping with her. Merlin,” she kicks the man then looks up and takes all three of them in with one sweeping glance. “I have, as my loyal vassals have requested, reexamined Luna’s loyalty and found it unblemished. Now get out.”

“Lady,” Theo, released, holds a hand out to her, then drops it at the expression on her face.

“I am most displeased by your lack of faith in my judgment,” she glares at him. “Right now you should be very, very grateful I have self-control. Luna knows almost _everything_ that we are doing; she has to in order to be able to fulfill her own tasks and she’s quite able to extrapolate much of the rest. Just because you never see me talking to her, or Astoria, or random people on the street, doesn’t mean I don’t do all those things and, let me reassure you, if Luna weren’t able to accept that we’re playing dirty she’d have been long gone.”

“Lady,” Blaise is still on his knees. “Forgive me, when she made a comment about the girl we obliviated, suggested she’d been attacked by monsters…”

“And it never occurred to you that the woman you were deceiving might have been playing you right back?” Hermione snaps at him. “Or to bring that little comment to me so I could have reassured you that she knew because I told her? Or so I could have taken care of it if she were, in fact, a problem? No,” she points her wand at him, genuine irritation in her face. “You decided to assume that the lot of you had to handle it behind my back. Are there any other little secrets the three of you are holding on to that I should ferret out?”

“No,” Theo takes a step towards her, hand extended.

“Would you care to rethink that answer,” she turns her wand on him. 

“Nothing that isn’t motivated by concern for you,” he amends. “Nothing related to our plans.”

“Get your wands,” she says evenly, “and get out.”

The men gather their things, head warily towards the door. Before they leave Luna calls out, without looking up, “Are we still on for dinner, Blaise?”

“Uh,” he looks worriedly at Hermione, “yes?”

After the door shuts Luna starts to laugh and, after a minute, Hermione joins in. “It’s okay, right, if I make him suffer a bit for this?” Luna asks.

“I’m surprised you’re willing to - ”

“Oh, I knew it was coming. I rather like him but the way he assumed he couldn’t trust me was starting to grate so I’ve been goading him on the matter for weeks.” She rolls her eyes. “They’re all very sweet but, for a group of people who pride themselves on their cunning, they can be awfully transparent.”

Hermione laughs so hard her eyes are watering by the time she’s able to regain control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens Madame Defarge knits a list of the names of people that will be executed in the upcoming revolution. 


	17. Chapter 17

** _~ Election Minus Seven Months ~_ **

Theo hands Hermione the article rough draft. “All we need is proof that they’ve lost most of the funds in their international investments and then we’re ready to go.”

She doesn’t look up at him, just takes the papers and starts looking them over. She’s still furious about their little stunt with Luna and not especially inclined to chat or smile with the man.

“I am sorry,” he tries again.

“So you’ve mentioned,” she says coolly. “More than once. And if I believed you weren’t likely to do it again the next time you’ve decided you don’t care for my decision, the next time you think you just shouldn’t bother my pretty little head about what you’re planning, I would probably be more interested in listening to your excuses. But, as I don’t believe that, you’re just going to have to stay in disgrace for a while longer.” She crosses off one sentence, corrects a minor grammatical issue, and hands the article back to him. “This looks good. Make the minor corrections I’ve indicated and then, once we have the proof, add that bit and then get it printed.” She looks up. “How are you planning to print it, anyway?”

“Luna.” He looks miserable and she resists the urge to rub in who their printer will be. “Lady, I…”

“Be grateful, Theo.” She’s looking back down again, almost ignoring him. “If I were the last one, you’d have been tortured by now for your little lapse in judgment.”

“I think,” the man mutters, “I’d prefer some quick misery to this. Just get it over with.”

“Oh,” she glances up again. “This is worse? Good.”

“I,” he tries again, “I went to meet Æthel.” She smiles a little at that and he takes that as permission to go on. “She’s, she’s wonderful Herm… Lady. She’s smart and clever and bossy as can be. And, Merlin, she’s going to be beautiful; I’m going to have to… She starts Hogwarts next year and she was all concerned about how she would be able to go and I asked her if she would be interested in being adopted and – “

“Hogwarts is free,” Hermione interrupts him. “She doesn’t need to be adopted to get an education.”

“Yes, but,” he shoves a hand through his hair, “children can be… unkind… to poorer classmates. You know that. I don’t want her to deal with that. I want… I want her to have everything shiny and new and…”

Hermione is smiling at him, at last, and rolling her eyes. “She doesn’t need a new cauldron, Theo. She needs a family. She needs to be a kid.” It’s hard to stay mad at the man when he’s so obviously already wrapped about this child’s finger, when he’s being so ridiculously adorable she can barely stand it. This, she thinks to herself, this commitment to our own people, this is what we need. 

“I put in the paperwork already and Blaise has promised to fast-track it through the Ministry for me. As soon as she said she’d like that, I had it done. She’ll be mine before the election. You think I can’t be her family,” she can tell that he’s forgetting to be careful, that she’s mad at him, in his irritation at that idea. “You think because I’m not married, because I’m – you think that means I can’t…”

“I think nothing of the sort.” She gets up, shifts her way around her worktable and hugs him. “I think you’ll be a great father. She’s lucky to have you.” She wonders how much she’ll have to fight him to get the girl on the stage for the formal ‘Why, yes, I _will_ be your new Minister’ speech but having her faux brother and his fierce, adopted orphan standing behind her would be the perfect tableau. We’re about family, it would say. We’re about tradition; we’re loyal, true to heritage, faithful to our kind come what may. The beautiful thing is, it wouldn’t even be a lie. Luna was right, of course, when she said you deceive people so much more effectively with truth. 

“I’m lucky to have her,” Theo corrects, utterly, perfectly besotted with his soon-to-be daughter, then adds. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“I suppose,” Hermione sighs. “I’m still upset with you; you undercut my judgment and risked antagonizing an ally, one who still has a tie to Harry which has all sorts of useful applications. But… if I’m mad at my vassal but I’m also so… just so proud of you. Happy for you. Happy, even, to get to go shopping to get an adoption present for my niece. You’d better not do it again, what you did with Luna; I can’t do this if I can’t trust you. And,” she smirks at him, “it’s not like you can go adopting an orphan every time you mess up.”

“Well,” he looks at her grinning somewhat impishly, “There are 22 more.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Pansy hands the muggle clerk her money, hiding her distaste at having to interact with the man, and says, “Now, you’re sure this will be anonymous?”

“Weekly deliveries of the finest scotch to one Ginny Potter for the next 4 months, no sender’s name given, no name attached to the order. It’s all taken care of.” He snorts. “Wish someone would arrange to ship me Laphroig every week. You’re the kind of friend everyone wants.”

“I’d do anything for what, and who, I care about,” Pansy smiles sweetly at the man.

. . . . . . . . . .

“How long do you plan on punishing me?” Draco’s leaning up against the doorframe of their room watching Hermione writing notes at a small desk. 

“Punishing you?” she doesn’t look up.

“You’re barely speaking to me. Theo and Blaise are both a mess – “

“I spoke to Theo today. He’s fine.” She signs one note and folds it up, writes ‘Narcissa Malfoy’ on the outside, drops some wax onto the fold and places her seal. 

“When do I get to be fine?”

“You all went behind my back. You did it so smoothly I didn’t even realize what you were up to until I walked into my old flat and found Luna on the floor with three men pointing wands at her, one of whom was her lover. That makes me –“ she pauses and looks up at him. “It makes me wary, Draco. I know you’re all loyal in the most technical of senses but how many other ways do I have to worry about you all choosing to just circumvent what I decide?”

“It’s not just technical, that loyalty,” he walks over to her, gingerly puts his hands on her shoulders and, when she doesn’t object, starts to gently knead. “We’d all die for you, for this insurrection. Literally.” 

“I don’t want you to die,” she mutters, putting her quill down. “I want you to listen to me, trust me when I tell you Luna is on our side.”

“I don’t think any of us realized you’d filled her in on, well, everything.” Draco slides his hands down her arms. “We were genuinely afraid that she was too… unstable… to be trustworthy.”

Hermione shakes her head. “She’s not unstable, Draco. She’s brilliant. She sees the world from a different angle than you do, perhaps, but she sees it clearly.” 

“Please,” he whispers. “Come back to me. I’m sorry, Hermione. I made a mistake. We all did. None of us knew her well before, and none of us trust easily. That caution, that’s a good thing; it keeps this whole thing going. But, please, stop shutting me out because you’re angry.”

“No more secrets,” she says at last, turning her head to look at his hand on her arm. “No more secrets between us.”

“I can do that,” he promises her, taking her hand and tugging her away from her desk. “Stop working. Your little love notes to my mother can wait.”

Hermione chuffs out a laugh and turns to him. “They’re hardly love notes. I’m asking her to set up the party where Astoria names us as godparents of her baby. She, as you’ve pointed out before and as she’s demonstrated, knows how to hit all the right social notes. And Theo’s formally adopting Æthel so there needs to be some kind of - ”

He lowers his lips to hers and cuts her off. She stiffens but as he draws his hands up her back and pulls he towards him, finally twisting his fingers in her hair she sighs and relaxes against him.

“I’m still mad at you,” she mutters, pulling back from him a bit. “You don’t get to kiss away your mistake.”

“Mmm.” He nuzzles her with his nose. “I know. But the silent treatment was going to break me.” He spins her around and lays her on the bed and very slowly starts taking off her shoes. “And I think you prefer me whole. I do, however, have one secret I must tell you.”

“Oh,” she slides up the bed and eyes him.

“Oh, yes.” He slips his hand up her leg and runs it along the edge of her knickers, hooking them with his fingers and tugging them down. “Theo, your dear brother Theo?”

“Mmm?” She’s only half-listening to him as she pulls her jumper off and tosses it to the side, unhooks the catch in her skirt. 

“He has some counsel for us, well, for me but it does concern you.” He sits between her legs, pushing the skirt up and out of his way so it lies bunched around her waist as she props herself on her elbows now and watches him through eyes already half-lidded.

“What,” she murmurs, “does he want.”

Draco lowers his mouth to the inside of her thigh and starts kissing, slowly moving upwards, laughing as she tenses underneath him. “He wants you showing by the day you’re sworn in.”

“Well,” she grabs at his hair and gasps. “I would hate to disregard his advice.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Astoria looks up at Pansy and says, her voice totally calm, “I think you should call the midwife.”

Greg turns and looks at her.

“Now,” Astoria snaps and Pansy fumbles as she races to get the woman.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Lady,” Blaise stands in the doorway of her flat, his hat quite literally in his hands. She raises her eyebrows then sighs and waves him in. Marks cover his neck, including at least two clear bite marks. They’re subtle against his skin, but clear enough for all that.

“I take it you had a good night?” she asks. He looks confused until she touches her own neck, then he flushes.

“She ate me alive.”

“Apparently. I take it you two have made up, you found a way to say ‘sorry I didn’t trust you, threatened you, held you at wand point’?”

“I, uh,” he looks down. “Yes. I did. She also pointed out that I needed to apologize to you.”

“Oh?” Hermione leans back and waits. This should be entertaining, if nothing else. She wonders why, exactly, Luna did to the man to cow him so completely. Was it just the proverbial taste of his own medicine – no one, after all, likes to discover they’re little more than a chew toy – or has she managed to wrap him up tightly in helpless longing for the unattainable. Funny to think that Blaise, conventional, conservative Blaise, might be falling for a woman who barely even acknowledges social constraints exist. The thought of that brings a gleam to her eye; as much as she likes the man, and she does, watching him hoisted on his own petard is not wholly unpleasant.

“You’re not planning on making this easy, are you?” He looks up at her and shudders, quickly looks back down. “I’ve said before my life is in your hands, I’ve told you I’d do anything to achieve our goals – your goals. I should have, well, should have had a little more trust in your judgment, or at least brought my concerns to you. It’s hard for me to think of one of... one of you… as someone who’d be willing to, well, get dirty to stage a coup, who’d even be interested in going against the Order.”

“One of you?” Hermione questions him, annoyed by the implication of the wording.

“One of Dumbledore’s Army. One of _you_. She was on the other side.”

“So was I,” Hermione says dryly. “You seem to have wrapped your brain around that just fine.”

“You’re different.” He looks up again. “Lady, I’m sorry. I erred. I should have trusted you. I beg your indulgence.”

She sighs. The formal request is most annoying because now she has to actually deal with him, to either forgive him or unload him and she can’t afford the latter; this remains the problem with their faux medieval set-up and she wonders if Luna coached him how to play this as he’s doing a significantly better job than Theo had. “Consider yourself indulged.” A shake of her head, then, “It’s not like I’m wholly honest with you about everything.”

“You don’t mean the blood status thing, do you?” 

“Oh…” she buries her head in her hands. “Just….shite. I don’t want to do this again. When did you figure it out?”

He shrugs and walks towards her, squats down in front of her chair. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s hard for me to think of you as - ” he hesitates.

“As a mudblood?”

“Yes.” To his credit he cringes a bit at her word choice. “It’s hard to reconcile you being, well, you with my built in prejudice. It was a lot easier to think of you as a pureblood; I admit I still do, really. It, just, it fits with how I’ve always seen the world; this brilliant, powerful woman simply can’t be, couldn’t be, a muggle-born.” He sighs. “But I thought about it, and, well, purebloods don’t abandon their children, not ever, really and certainly not to muggles. That’s part of what makes that orphanage so shocking. I realized it seemed a lot more likely that Draco and Theo both cared more about power than blood status than that you’d somehow been a pureblood all along.”

“Do I obliviate you now?” she sighs even as she reaches for her wand.

“No!” He holds up both hands quickly, warding her off. “No, you don’t have to do that! I’m sure most people won’t think it through. Draco’s prejudice is long established, and Narcissa? Getting her to publicly validate you as a pureblood was brilliant. And… you know how I feel about the risks muggle-borns pose. It’s never been personal for me, not like it is for some people. I don’t think they’re – you’re – dirty or unclean or some kind of taboo caste. Just… dangerous. I… my life is in your hands, no matter who your parents were.” He bows his head down, clearly not planning to fight her if she does decide to erase this particular bit of knowledge. 

She closes her eyes and rubs them. “Does it make you feel any better I agree with you about the risks? That we’re working on a plan to close us off more thoroughly from the muggle world, bring all magical babies wholly into our world?”

She opens her eyes to find him down all the way on his knees, face buried in his hands, trying not to cry. “What’s wrong? Did you _want_ me to scrub your mind? Because I can if you really prefer it that way.” 

“No,” he chokes out. “It’s just… thank you. I don’t know what we did to deserve you. We called you names, despised you and you’re - everything I’m afraid of, everything I hate about our world, you’re fixing it.”

Hermione watches him for a moment as he struggles to compose himself, and then leans down towards the man. "Did I ever tell you why my parents - my actual, muggle parents - and I are estranged?" He shakes his head and she waves him up. Once he's pulled a chair over – she’s finally gotten more chairs – and settled at a more equal level she continues, "I had the idea, during the war, that if I obliviated them and sent them away they'd somehow be safer."

"That was, begging your pardon, a bit of a dumb idea."

"I know that now," she nods. "Just because they themselves didn't know they were my parents didn't mean a Death Eater with even a modicum of research skills couldn't have figured it out. No one interested in murdering them would have cared they had no idea why they were being killed; hell, that might have added to the spice for some of those people. But I got lucky and no one cared enough to really look, and so they survived. I went to find them afterwards and restored their memories."

She stops for a moment, looks down at the floor and Blaise waits. Finally she continues. "When I was done my father told me what I had done was evil. Evil. He told me that taking another person's memories was erasing that person's very being, that I was as morally culpable as if I had killed them myself." Her voice has started to shake and Blaise reaches a hand out towards her. She smiles wanly at him and goes on. "That I was able to undo it was of no import, he told me."

"That's ridiculous," Blaise mutters. "Only a muggle would rather be dead than..."

"Oh, I don't know,” Hermione shrugs. "I don't think I'd care for it, and what we did to that girl, that was pretty wretched. And, as you pointed out, they might well have been killed anyway. At any rate, they told me that magic was clearly a corrupting force, that as alluring and delightful as it seemed at first if it had led me to try to erase their very selves from their minds it was obviously something pernicious. And, well, I refused to give it up. I spent a long while afterwards thinking about whether they were right, whether what I had done to them was akin to murder. I still don't have an answer to that."

"So... you never see them?" he asks quietly.

"Hardly ever. I have a muggle post office box so they can write, which they hardly ever do. I don't use muggle technology, so no phone, no email." She shrugs. "The cultural gap is huge. I'm not sure it can be bridged. I know they don't want to."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"Yes, well," she shakes her head. "If we can place every magical baby in a magical family that won't happen. No sudden shocks at eleven that the things you've been doing aren't imaginary or signs you are suffering from some kind of psychosis. No going to school where everyone else speaks a language you didn't even know existed until a few months before. No more having to walk a tightrope between two worlds."

'What..." Blaise trails off. "How?"

"Draco’s working on it. It's nothing we can implement until after the election. It's probably nothing we can do until we're..."

"Until we've gotten rid of that pesky elected office issue?"

"And even then quietly. But, Blaise, it will mean no more divided loyalties."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Daphne sticks her head around the edge of Hermione’s door and says, “I have a present for you. Two, actually.”

“Oh,” Hermione looks up and smiles. After Blaise had had what seemed to be another nervous breakdown on her floor she’d finally managed to chase him away and had spent the last several hours just reading a novel. A muggle novel; she’d have to remember to have a muggle literature class instituted at Hogwarts. No one needed to know about toaster ovens but to lose out on Dickens and Austen seemed criminal.

“It’s a girl,” Daphne hands her a snapshot. Astoria’s hair hangs lankly over her forehead, filthy with sweat, but she’s holding a baby wrapped up with a tiny hat pushed down over her head. “Healthy, both are healthy. 7 pounds, 4 ounces. 19 inches long. You can’t tell in that picture because of the hat but she’s got a head of dark hair.”

“We’ll give her a couple of weeks,” Hermione says, looking at the picture. “Will she be ready to…”

“Oh yeah.”

“What’s her name?

“Alicia Carys.”

“Beautiful.” Hermione sets down the photograph and taps her fingers on the table and waits expectantly for the other bit of news. Daphne smiles at her and reaches back into her bag and pulls out a small box. 

“One spell, designed by Theo, Blaise and myself, complete with a certain Ginny Potter’s blood. You don’t even have to slip a potion into her drink. We cast a circle at midnight on a new moon, burn the contents of the box while saying the words and she’ll begin to find alcohol an almost irresistible temptation.”

“Throw in her husband getting caught in a hugely public cheating scandal…” Hermione smiles back at the other woman.

“And she’s toast. She won’t be coherent enough to defend him and everyone will assume Potter’s little dalliance with Astoria has driven his unfortunate wife to drink.”

“I don’t suppose you can engineer some kind of stumbling drunken exhibition in public?” Hermione asks.

“Of course I can,” Daphne laughs, then she hesitates, adds, “This is dark magic, you know. It’s irreversible, damaging. I’m sure if the Ministry had any idea such a thing existed it would be immediately banned.”

“Then we’ll be sure to follow the eleventh commandment,” Hermione smiles. At Daphne’s confused look she adds, “’Thou Shalt Not Get Caught.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Æthel is an Anglo-Saxon name meaning “noble.” Alicia derives from Alice, also meaning noble. 


	18. Chapter 18

** _Election Minus 6 ½ - 6 Months_ **

"And so I look forward to leading us all into a brighter, more peaceful, more just future together." Harry finishes his campaign speech while smiling beatifically at his audience. They'd set the event up so potential voters could ask him things and his campaign manager had promised he would fill the audience with people guaranteed to toss him nice, easy questions. The seats in the room are filled, quite a few reporters and photographers but also people, the ordinary people, he sees himself leading. Narcissa Malfoy, sitting with a giant bag at her feet, has also deigned to grace the event with her presence. He smugly thinks to himself that she must know which way the wind is blowing and therefore, ever the opportunist, she's decided to publicly align herself with him. Some things never change, though; she may have come to see him speak but she's still looking at him like he's something unpleasant she's found on the bottom of her shoe. Ginny perches on a seat in the front row, the perfect candidate's wife in a smart outfit and tidy little heels; she's smiling at him, ever the supportive partner, still the best thing that ever happened to him. Ron is perched next to her, though he's spent most of the speech discreetly flipping through a quiddich magazine. Well, Harry admits the speech is pablum and Ron's had to hear him practice it so many times the man probably could give it himself. He's still glad to have his best friend there; public speaking like this gives him the shakes.

His team has set up a podium at the front of the center aisle and he recognizes the first woman in line; she's a waitress at a local pub. When she asks, "Do you really think that a candidate's moral fiber is the most compelling reason to vote for them?" he relaxes from a strain he hadn't known he was under. These _will_ be easy questions. Good. He gives her the pat answer he's rehearsed at some length about difficult times and hard decisions in the aftermath of two wars and the woman thanks him, moves aside, and behind her stands Astoria Greengrass.

Astoria Greengrass, who is holding a baby.

"What," she asks, her voice carrying across the silent room, "in this grand vision for our world do you plan to do for your newborn daughter?"

Every head in the room turns to look at her, and just as quickly they whip back to look at him. He can see cameras going off and reporters jumping to their feet as the woman stands there, clearly exhausted from the tribulations of new motherhood but as lovely as he remembered. Lovelier. He looks, panicked, towards the door, an almost instinctive desire to get out, and sees Hermione standing right there, barely inside the room. Malfoy has his arm around her waist and the man is looking at him with a steady, mocking gaze. Hermione looks up at the stage, glances up at him from under her lashes; Harry can't remember her every looking so coy. When did she learn feminine wiles? She brings two fingers to her mouth, kisses them, and then flips the V towards him. He gapes at her, looks back at Astoria, his expression of sudden, dumbfounded understanding caught on multiple cameras. When he looks back at the doorway, Hermione and Malfoy are both gone, as if they'd never been there.

"Mr. Potter," a reporter has jumped up and is waving her arms. "Is that baby yours?"

Another reporter is shouting out, "How well do you know Miss Greengrass, Mr. Potter?" to which some wag yells, "I'd guess pretty well!"

"Does your wife know?" someone calls out and Harry stares at Ginny, sitting in the front row, looking at him with murder in her eyes. She does now, he thinks.

"Miss Greengrass," a reporter has sidled up to her. "Can you prove this is Mr. Potter's baby?"

"I'd be happy," she replies, with quiet dignity despite the storm raging across the room, "to undergo any paternity testing, muggle or magical, you'd like. I am wholly sure this is Mr. Potter's baby as he's the only man I've ever been with."

"Miss Greengrass," another reporter, a gossip columnist Harry things, calls out, "How does your mother feel about you having a child out of wedlock?"

"She's not speaking to me," Astoria's voice hitches a little bit. "Fortunately, Mrs. Malfoy has taken me under her wing and is helping me figure out how to take care of a baby." At that moment the baby makes a noise and every woman in the room coos, as if on cue. Harry looks back at Narcissa Malfoy, the only woman not focused on the baby. She's looking at him, sneering at him. Hermione. Draco. Narcissa. Harry looks back at Astoria, holding her baby, looking innocent and lost and remembers how _filthy_ she'd been in bed. How willing she'd been to do anything, things Ginny wouldn't talk about, things he hadn't even known to dream about.

"You whore," he whispers.

Unfortunately for him, several reporters overhear that comment.

The press conference lasts a long time and with every shouted question Harry sees his political ambitions recede further and further away. By the end, he knows he's done. He watches Greg Goyle escort Astoria away, his big hand gentle on her elbow, Narcissa Malfoy walking slightly behind them, holding that large bag – that diaper bag – in her hands; Harry looks at Ginny, whose expression is not gentle at all.

It's going to be a long night.

. . . . . . . . . .

"You know," Draco props himself up on one side and looks at Hermione, "I never thought you'd give in to the urge to gloat."

"Oh," she looks slightly embarrassed as she pulls the sheet back up over her hips. It's been a long night. "I know it wasn't the wisest thing ever but the look on his face was worth the risk and it's not like he can do anything about it. We won't be announcing my candidacy officially for a few more weeks, not until the economic scandal spreads, and people have such a short political memory. No one will connect his fall with my rise, and if anyone asks why I was there I can just say I wanted to wish my old friend well but I slipped out when I realized what he'd done."

Draco takes a finger and traces it along the curve of her breast. "It isn't enough," he says after several moments of quiet. "Keeping that bastard from becoming Minister isn't enough."

Hermione turns to look at him, a question in her eyes.

"I told you, when we started, that I hated him. I've hated him since we were children and nothing I've learned since has changed that opinion. He's an entitled, arrogant, selfish..."

"The pot calling the kettle black?" she asks with an arch smile.

"Maybe. I still hate him. I want him dead, Hermione."

She closes her eyes and they lie in silence for a while, his finger slowly outlining her. "I'm not done, you know. With him." Hermione's voice is very soft. "And there are worse things than death. A man can only die once; I've told you before, humiliation, his humiliation, all of their humiliation, is something you and I can savor over and over again. And we will. He'll know what it means to beg for mercy, and to beg in vain, before I'm through with him."

"I thought," he spreads his fingers out against her skin, "mercy was the mark of a great man."

"You thought I was a man?" Hermione picks her head up and looks at him. "I think you might have missed something fairly basic in health class."

He bites back a laugh. "Maybe more research is in order?"

"Mmm. I'm always a fan of research," she sighs and flops back down to the bed. "Not now though. You've worn me out. Apparently even a small triumph over your enemies spurs you to new heights."

"Hermione," he's very quiet. "It's not that I'm objecting to your conversion to my way of thinking about Potter. I just… he was your best friend. Are you sure, really sure, you want to destroy him?"

She turns to look at him. "Draco. If I told Theo you hit me, what would he do?"

"At the very least leave me bloody on the floor." He shrugs, then, as realization dawns, "Oh. Of course." He's so glad she's stopped blaming herself; he much prefers her vengeful to filled with self-loathing.

She curls into him. "Oh. Exactly. People change. He's changed. I've changed. I think I can honor the memory of what he was while still recognizing I have to deal with who he is now." She yawns and he tucks himself around her, goes back to trailing his fingers across her exposed skin. "Besides, he shouldn't have demanded I walk away from you, should have taken the olive branch I offered when I did."

"He wanted you to do what?" Draco's finger comes to rest on her hip.

"He wanted to talk me out of marrying you," Hermione is slowly falling asleep. "As if that would have been possible. The day of the wrist thing. He should have realized I'd never leave you, agreed to work with me anyway. Fool."

"Well," his response was, if at all possible, quieter than hers. "You do need me for our little revolution."

"It's not that," she's barely conscious anymore and there's a long silent space before she mumbles, "As if I'd choose him over you, now." Another long pause and he listens to her breathing. He pulls the sheet up to cover her shoulders.

"You chose me?" he murmurs into the quiet room. To be more than blood and guile, to be the choice, he closes his eyes and thinks of that possibility.

"I'll always choose you," her fingers find him, twine around his. "Not even sure why, but at every crossroad, it's always you."

He tightens his fingers around hers, now lax with sleep.

. . . . . . . . . .

** _Harry Potter Withdraws from Race for Minister of Magic_ **

_In their efforts to once again place one of their own as Minister of Magic, the Order of the Phoenix has lost a candidate._

_Harry Potter has withdrawn from the race over stunning allegations by socialite Astoria Greengrass that he is the father of her baby, leaving the field wide open for other potential candidates. Potter could not be reached for comment but his long time friend and brother-in-law, Ronald Weasley, said that Potter wished to spend more time with his family._

_Weasley has blamed Potter's withdrawal on 'entrapment', claiming the candidate was deliberately seduced by the considerably younger woman, but Narcissa Malfoy, who has publicly defended Miss Greengrass, says Potter needs to take responsibility for what happened._

_Potter, best known for his defeat of Tom Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, in the Second Wizarding War, has spent much of his time since that war enjoying the pleasures of peacetime. Like most members of the Order of the Phoenix he was handsomely compensated for his war service and has not since turned his hand to business, charitable, or government work._

_Potter's fall from grace is particularly brutal, as he had based much of his campaign rhetoric around the need for a Minister with an unblemished moral character._

_With the election a little over six months away many people are asking who could step in at this late date and capture the public's attention. One name that's been floated is Hermione Granger-Malfoy, former member of the Order of the Phoenix and Ministry employee. Granger-Malfoy has never run for office and dropped out of the public eye after the war but remains a well-known war heroine and some speculate her recent marriage to Draco Malfoy would give her a popularity boost among the traditional political powerhouses of wizarding Britain._

. . . . . . . . . .

"Nicely done," Hermione looks up at Draco across the breakfast table. "The article I mean."

"I thought you'd like that," he smirks back at her. "And the best part is…"

"It's all true," she grins at him. "How goes the rest of the propaganda coordination?"

"Pansy has pulled back from churning out quite so many 'lifestyles of people wealthier than you' articles and is focusing on the Astoria angle. We have lots of letters to the editor, easily half of them spontaneous, about how unfair it is that a man plays around and a woman has to bear the brunt of the results. At least four other women have popped up saying they had affairs with Potter too, including Cho Chang – remember her? I wouldn't be surprised if more show up. Potter's apparently a tough dog to keep on the porch, if you catch my meaning."

Hermione nearly spits out her tea.

"You'd think Ginny would have kept him in line better," Draco's continuing on. "I have to admit, that woman scares me a little."

"I suspect they've had a kind of 'don't ask, don't tell' thing going on," Hermione murmurs.

"Maybe." Draco looks doubtful but shrugs. "Once you and Blaise get the Russian thing straightened out we start hammering the economic nails into their coffin. Theo's got rough drafts of the basic articles ready to go, outlining what they've been up to. It's quite a bit so we'll be able to keep that going for a while; Merlin knows trying to wrap my own brain around all the improprieties is hard, so getting hedge witches off in the hinterlands to follow it all might be impossible but the basic overview that the Order has been stealing money and as a result they're all rich and most people can barely afford food is pretty simple."

"And I quit the Ministry?"

He smiles. "In an outrage over the orphanage. We'll run the pictures then and do another article with you and Theo standing there, surrounded by all the little urchins. Theo's not totally comfortable with Æthel being a prop in that story but he'll do it. I pointed out to him that if he asked the girl whether she'd like to twist a knife in the guts of the people responsible for that orphanage..."

"She'd smile the whole time she was turning the handle. A Hufflepuff she's not. She makes me wish we had a ten-year-old son we could engage her to." Hermione drums her fingers on the table. "I need to get on an adoption party for her, complete with that photographer."

"I thought my mother was handling that."

Hermione sighs and puts her head into her hands. "So she is. I'm starting to have trouble keeping everything organized."

"Don't worry about it. I'll keep everything running. You're going to need to focus on being the candidate soon. Let me be the chief of staff."

She looks over at him, "What would I do without you?"

"Sit in the back of a pub and glare at Potter and Weasley from the shadows?"

"Probably." She reaches across the table for the jam, which he slides towards her. "How goes the thing where you position me as the princess-y figurehead who the masses can rally behind."

He shrugs. "I admit I've been focusing on the political angle. Getting you declared queen is a bit of an after-election project, though Theo's casual introduction of the medieval language has been helpful."

"Regent."

"What?"

"I think we should aim for regent, as Theo suggested. Nimue makes the Pendragon the ruler, she isn't the ruler herself."

"You'd settle for that?"

"Settle for 17 or more years of absolute power?" She grins at him as she spreads her jam. "I think I can manage to live with that, yes. And the more we can tap into the feeling that I _am_ Nimue, in some vague and ill-defined magical way, the more people will respond. Romance and poetry, as you like to remind me, rally people far more than economics."

"Funny, I've never thought of you as a romantic."

"Pragmatist. I'm a pragmatist. And if romance works, I'm all for it."

He smirks at her. "Then romance it is, my sweet, horribly mistreated, innocent Lady, ready to rally the common people to her banner, unite us all to crown a king."

"A king who will just happen to be your son," she takes a bite out of her toast.

"So much the better," he leans back in his chair and looks at her, "so much the better."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione reads over the spell looking less and less happy. "You want me to bathe in blood?"

"Only a little," Blaise reassures her. "We just put it into a bath, like bubble bath or something, and you soak for a while and then…"

"_Virgin_ blood?"

"Well, I admit I'm not totally sure that part is necessary but it's probably better to err on the side of caution."

"So we won't be using yours, then?" She cocks her head to the side and smirks at him.

Draco nearly chokes on a pretzel at that, and Pansy manages to hide her face by bending over and rooting through her bag pretending to look for something. Theo just openly laughs and Blaise, wavers between looking offended, irritated and amused.

"I was thinking a baby bird or a ca…"

"I am not bathing in the blood of kittens!" She cuts him off.

He holds his hands up in surrender. "It can be something you'd eat for dinner anyway. How about a rabbit? We slaughter the rabbit, drain its blood into a cup, do the spell and you take a bath while Draco makes you dinner."

"Your assumption I can cook is charming, but misplaced," Draco snorts.

"Merlin. I'll cook the bloody thing," Blaise snaps. "Honestly, how you people survive without an army of servants is a mystery."

"This still sounds incredibly disgusting." Hermione holds the paper between two fingers away from her and makes a face. "How sure are you it will work?"

"Reasonably sure," Blaise puts on the expression he's used his whole life to coax extra sweets from cooks, women into his bed, his mother into extra allowance money. "It's worth trying, right?"

"As vile as it seems," Theo puts in, "I think you should do it."

"Can I borrow those books?" Pansy asks Blaise in an undertone while Hermione reads over the spell again.

"Are you sure you have the translation right?" She looks up. "Romanian is…"

"Close enough to Italian that, yes, I'm sure I have the translation right. And I had Luna look it over. You know how she is with languages."

"Draco?" She looks at him, clearly asking his opinion.

"Oh, do it. Don't turn your back on a potential advantage just because it's messy. We'll kill the bunny, do the spell, you soak in the blood infused water, and then take a shower. After that, you're just magically more appealing. Indoor plumbing makes this seem like a non-issue to me."

She hands the paper back to Blaise and rubs her hands over her face. "Pansy?"

Draco elbows the woman in the ribs when she doesn't respond and she quickly adds, "Yes, of course. You'd be stupid not to. Worst thing that happens is you eat rabbit for dinner."

"Fine," Hermione mutters. "Though I want to go on record that I think some blood magic is really disgusting." She stands up and takes Blaise's hand. "Thank you, Blaise, for undertaking this research project. This independent research project. I appreciate your efforts."

"My pleasure, Lady," he bows over her hand to hide his smirk at getting his way. "I am overjoyed to be of service."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Ginny looks at the headline. The fucking bastard got caught. All she'd asked was that he keep his peccadilloes quiet and now – now, when he's just announced his official plan to run for Minister – a bloody pureblood girl from a good family shows up with a baby in her arms. HIS baby in her arms. She runs down the list of names she keeps in her head and Astoria's not on it. She wonders how many others she's missed, whether they're going to show up in the papers too.

She looks at the bottle of scotch; she'd assumed it was a gift from some political donor, addressed to her to avoid potential any charges of quid pro quo but now she doesn't care. She gets down a tumbler, pours herself a drink, and sits staring at the photo of Astoria Greengrass holding Harry Potter's bastard child.


	19. Chapter 19

Blaise has come to one conclusion on this trip: he wishes the Weasleys had fallen for the Grecian bait instead of the Russian bait.

Greece was warm. Greece had sand, and blue skies, and pretty women wearing not very much. Moscow, on the other hand, was cold. It was cold, and grey, and it was impossible for him to ascertain what anyone looked like from a distance because everyone was wearing far too much clothing.

Not, of course, that he’s on the market. Luna would kill him if he strayed, or, worse, she would look idly unconcerned and tell him she was about to go off to Bulgaria in search of some imaginary creature anyway and it was just as well. That might break him.

The possibility that a woman might actually break him had never occurred to Blaise before and he doesn’t much care for it but there it is. He stomps into the waiting area for the generally unimportant muggle government official he’s meeting, thinking a steady series of irate thoughts about women, how all women are insane but that it’s just _his_ luck that he would have to fall for one who might, no matter what Hermione insists, be insane in a clinical rather than a figurative sense.

He probably should care more about that. What if her insanity was hereditary? Theo’s already snagged the best orphan. He needs an heir of his own. What if Luna didn’t want children? What if she only wanted to travel the world in search of whatever daft idea she’s latched onto? Blaise frowns. He likes travel, and with enough nannies travel with children could be made reasonably pain free. 

The secretary smiles at him, the inviting ‘I’m free for lunch and know a hotel that rents by the hour’ smile he’s seen on the faces of more women than he can recall and he ignores her to ponder what he can bring Luna from Russia that she might like. Nesting dolls seem a bit clichéd. Ugg. What do you buy a woman who wears vegetables as jewelry?

When he finally gets into the dark, small, cramped and thoroughly unpleasant office of the man he’s come to meet he shuts the door and imperiouses the fellow instantly, hands him the neatly typed pile of documents outlining the investments the Order of the Phoenix have made in Russian firms, all done with the embezzled government money they’ve used the orphanage budget to hide. “You need to seize these assets. All of them. Just take them away, government seizure, tuck them into whatever slush fund makes you happy. You can claim it’s tax fraud if you like.”

The man nods, the usual vague agreement of the imperioused. Honestly, that he’d had to come all the way to this cold, dank, dark office for this seems absurd. It was just too easy; muggles were individually so pathetic and if there just weren’t so bloody many of them the world would feel much safer. Blaise smiles falsely and thanks the man for his time then stomps back out into the secretary’s lair. She’s still smiling at him and he thinks unhappily that, since he’s might have to come back to confirm that the man had actually followed through, he should probably try to be polite to this worthless woman.

“What do you think,” he asks her with a frown, “should I get my girlfriend as a present?”

. . . . . . . . . .

_A Phoenix once came to Pawtucet.  
Each cherry he saw, he would pluck it.  
Gold and land he would take,  
Promises and laws break.  
Whatever you had, he would fuck it_.

Ron rips down another – another! – one of the anti-Order limericks that’s been pasted to the wall. How, he fumes, did we go from being the saviors of the wizarding world to the butt of jokes. I risked my life for you people, he thinks to himself. And now this?

Nothing has been going right lately. The paper is filled with editorials complaining about everything, Harry’s candidacy was derailed by that Greengrass tramp, and Percy has been so on edge he’s even more of a nightmare to be around than usual. 

He glares at Hermione, standing across the street at gate of the orphanage, talking to a reporter with that creep, Theo Nott, standing beside her. He knows it’s irrational but he blames Hermione for everything. It seems like as soon as he’d started seeing her around again everything had begun to go wrong. Now she’s over there charming the press – the same press that suddenly has nothing good to say about the Order – while some miserable chit of a girl stands pressed up against Nott, her hand tucked into his, her eyes on Hermione, with still more kids standing behind them in the gate, peering around the edges.

He crosses over the street, eager in his current mood for some kind of confrontation, and sneers at his old friend. “I thought it was Malfoy you married. What are you doing here with this bastard? Is the ferret already tired of you?”

Hermione turns to him and he’s struck by how cool she seems, how unruffled by his taunt. The girl he’d known had been passionate, easy to rile up but also dumpy and about as sexy as an old blanket. This woman, in form fitting black from head to toe, her hair twisted up, feet tucked into high heels and that bloody ferret’s jewelry sparkling from her hand and wrist, this woman might as well be someone totally different; he doesn’t know her at all anymore. “Draco and I are happily married, thank you for asking. Nott and I are - ” she stops to exchange a glance with the reporter, “we’re good friends.”

“I thought you were my aunt!” the little girl interjects, with a stubborn thrust to her jaw.

“Indeed,” Hermione soothes the child while Ron narrows his eyes, “but I was never acknowledged by his father, and more than you were by yours, so…”

“It’s not fair,” the girl mutters.

“Well, life’s not,” Hermione says phlegmatically. “Can I help you with something, Ron?”

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking first at her, then at the reporter. 

“Coming by to visit Æthel, mostly.” Hermione runs her fingers down the girl’s plaited hair. “The paper is doing a little human interest piece on the orphanage and, of course, I volunteer here a bit and Theo’s adoption is about to go through so we were logical people to interview – “

“He got me a broom!” the girl announces. “Of my very own! And one for everyone else too!”

“You did,” the reporter turns to Theo, quill out. “You didn’t mention that.”

The man looks slightly embarrassed. “I just didn’t want her to show up at Hogwarts never having ridden so much as a kid’s broom. And it’s not like I could get her one and not get all the other kids one too. I know her, she’d spend her whole day ensuring everyone got their turn.”

“A little Hufflepuff, mmm,” smiles the reporter, clearly charmed by the confession, “concerned with fairness.”

Hermione looks down at the ground without saying anything and Theo glances at the girl, “My little princess looks after her own, that for sure, and I’ll be proud of her no matter what house she’s sorted into.”

“Why’re you buying toys for all these kids?” demands Ron. “Since when have you cared about orphans?”

Theo hesitates and the reporter jumps in. “Are you involved with the orphanage as well, Mr. Weasley? I’d love to include your perspective in my article.”

“My mum’s the head of the board!” he brags. “We’re all of us involved. What we do may not be as showy,” he sneers, “as buying fancy toys – “

“Or reading to the children,” Hermione murmurs.

“- but it does a lot more for the whole place than little feel-good acts of charity.”

“So…” the reporter looks at him, “You feel your mother – indeed, your whole family - is responsible for the conditions in which these children live?”

“We sure are,” he responds. “They aren’t living the pampered life you had as a boy, Nott,” he’s nearly spitting at the man, who looks more amused than anything else, a condescending expression that infuriates Ron. “Not everyone grows up rich, you know. I was poor as a child and I turned out fine.” He turns to Hermione, who’s looking at him with a strangely pleased, predatory smile. Ron frowns a bit as she and Nott exchange quick glances and she promptly schools her expression to one of polite interest. What, he wonders, is _that_ about. 

“In fact, would you say these conditions are, perhaps, character building?” the reporter continues as the photographer snaps a series of pictures of him, with the children still peering around the walls of the door behind him. Hermione has nudged Theo and Æthel out of the frame, giving the man a better shot.

“Absolutely,” Ron responds.

“Can I quote you on that?” 

“Certainly.” Ron turns back to Theo. “Why are you adopting a kid, anyway?”

“Well, in general I’d say my reasons were private but as I’ve already discussed them with the lovely lady from the _Prophet _I have no problem repeating them to you.” Nott tugs on the end of one of the girl’s pigtails and she grins up at him. “I saw a photograph of Æthel and felt an instant connection to her. I’m in need of an heir, of course, and have no real interest in marriage, so adoption seemed a logical solution. I discussed it with the young lady and she was amenable. We’re both looking forward to figuring out how to be father and daughter as those roles will be new to both of us.”

It was a politician’s smooth, rehearsed answer and Ron laughs. “Why no interest in marriage, Nott. Could it be you really are a bloody poof?”

“Don’t insult my father,” the little girl’s voice is low and Ron looks down at her, suddenly uneasy. He’d forgotten that these kids were, with a handful of exceptions, war orphans, and by and large the lost children of Death Eaters no one would claim. Whoever this girl is, she’s probably the biological daughter of someone unscrupulous to the point of being evil, and right now she’s looking at him like she’d be happy to skin him alive.

“It’s not an insult, poppet,” Nott’s voice holds a warning. “Control yourself. His phrasing may be a bit rude, but my dating preferences are hardly something I’m going to be humiliated by, especially given the source.”

“Is _that_ going to be part of your puff piece on this place and his little adoption?” Ron demands, looking at the reporter.

“I hardly think it’s relevant to my story,” the woman smiles, a shark’s grin, at him. “It was charming meeting you, Mr. Weasley. Hermione,” she nods. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Lovely as always, La…ma’am,” the photographer almost doffs his hat towards Hermione but seems to think better of it after glancing at Ron and squats down instead to talk to the little girl. “It was good to see you again, Æthel. I’m looking forward to seeing you all dressed up at your big party; will you let me take a picture of you in your fancy dress?”

The girl smiles and nods, all adorable feminine vanity now, and giggles into her hand before hiding her face in Nott’s side. 

“I hope so,” Hermione teases her, “I’ve already got a frame picked out and sitting on my mantle, waiting for a photo of my favorite niece.”

“Your _only_ niece,” the girl insists. Ron rolls his eyes; what idiot would believe this fiction that Hermione is Nott’s long lost sister, no matter what role he’d taken on at her farce of a wedding? 

“True enough,” Hermione’s laughing at the girl’s possessiveness, “but you’re going to have to share mantle space with Alicia, I’m afraid.”

“Who,” Ron demands.

“Alicia.” Hermione’s shooing the children back into the courtyard and just looks back quickly over her shoulder before shutting the door, before shutting him out with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Astoria’s daughter. Draco and I have agreed to stand as godparents.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“Godparents,” Ginny screams at him. “They’re going to be godparents? They can’t do that!”

“It’s a slap in the face, that’s what it is,” Molly slams a bottle down on the table. “She never expressed the slightest interest in anything any of you have done and now she’s all over that little bastard.” The dinner table has been half cleared and, several glasses of wine into the evening, Ron’s desire to complain about Hermione has beaten out his desire to avoid his sister’s shrieking. “It’s not like she and that Greengrass girl were ever even friends!”

“I agree,” Ron pours himself a glass of wine, tops off his sister’s glass. Now that’s he told them all the story of his encounter with Hermione and her ‘brother’ more wine seems like a good choice.

“It’s all a show,” Harry says heavily, staring into his glass. “The marriage. The volunteering. She’s aiming for Minister.”

“What?” Molly looks at him. “That’s not possible. She’s _muggle-born_.”

“What makes you think that,” Ginny demands, draining her glass and immediately pouring herself another one.

“It’s just a hunch,” Harry admits. “But even the papers are naming her as a potential candidate. I’m sure she set me up with Astoria. I’m _sure_ of it. She was _there_, at the event; she bloody well flipped me off from the door. She was just standing there with Malfoy’s arm around her, and don’t try to tell me she actually cares about that tosser; he’s her little ticket to legitimacy with the purebloods, that’s all. I don’t understand how she could have set me up but she _knew_ what was going to happen…”

“Well,” Ginny mutters bitterly, “whatever trap she set, you were more than willing to walk right into it.”

“Just give it a rest,” he snaps. “Unless you want to talk about Dean in some detail.”

Molly pretends not to hear as Ginny slams her own glass down. “It was one time. And, meanwhile, we all know you’re basically a revolving door of women.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Ron looks at her, watching her wine slosh over the edge of her glass. Harry’s oh-so-very-public infidelity has hit her hard.

Harry drops his head into his hands. “I know,” he whispers. “I know, but, Ginny, I love you. Just you. You’re the most important thing in my life. The others…”

“They don’t mean anything?” she asks sardonically.

“Well they don’t,” he glares at her across the table. 

“So,” says Ron, trying to get them to drop the subject, “how do we stop Hermione?”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione squints at the shelf in the bookshop, then pulls one of the books off and looks at it. “I didn’t realize you were a – “

“A poof?” Theo raises his eyebrows.

“Not the wording I would have used,” Hermione snorts and selects another book.

“Does it matter?” He leans against the edge of the shelf and watches her.

“Of course not. Don’t be insulting.” Hermione rolls her eyes at him and then adds, “Hold these,” as she shoves two books into his hands and kneels down to look at more on the bottom shelf.

“Since when did I become your carrier of books?” he asks, watching her draw her finger along the spines.

“Since you became my brother, obviously.” She hands another one up to him and he, with a much put upon sigh, takes it from her. “When did you learn to get makeup out of shirts, anyways?”

“I did experiment, you know, in my misspent youth.” He looks at the books in his hands. “Why are we buying muggle children’s books?”

“Because it’s practically a sin that a 10-year-old girl doesn’t have _Anne of Green Gables_.”

“And _A Little Princess_?” he holds one book out and looks down at her. 

“Yep. And _Ballet Shoes _too.” She stands up and brushes dust off her dress. “You know, I wanted to be Posy as a girl, to have some kind of amazing talent that couldn’t be ignored or contained. I spent a lot of time trying to stand on my toes thinking I could prove I was special that way.” 

Theo looks at her and starts to laugh. “You wanted to be a girl with an amazing talent? And out of all the ones you could have picked, out all the ones you _have,_ the one you latched onto was being able to stand on your toes? Really?”

She looks confused, then a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and she finally grins at him. “Fine, be that way. Just give me the books, you brat, and I’ll pay for them and have the clerk gift wrap them for your daughter. And I’ll have you know that all that time spent trying to stand on my toes turned out to be very useful now that Draco has me in these ridiculous heels all the time.”

“Is he still nagging you about the shoes?”

“Yes,” she mutters, looking down at her feet. “It’s always ’power shoes’ and ‘clothes are costumes’ and ‘look the part’ and really, I sometimes wonder if just he has a sadistic streak.”

“Of course he does.” Theo snorts and offers her his arm to lead her up to the counter. “He’s a Malfoy.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“Look,” the girl passes the magazine over to her friend. “This is so amazing. They did a whole ‘Nimue’ themed fashion spread.

“Who the bloody hell is Nimue?” the other girl asks.

“Oh gods, you are so stupid.” A roll of the eyes. “She’s the coolest woman in history _ever. _It’s like you don’t even pay attention when I talk to you about the way the patriarchy shapes the way we view our past. It’s always ‘Merlin this’ and ‘Merlin that’ but Nimue? She tricks him, takes all his power. She’s the one who _makes_ Arthur king, freaking gives him the sword. She’s so amazing. Girl power, hello?”

“I like those shoes.”

“Honestly,” she snatches the magazine back. “It’s like throwing pearls before swine. I try to talk to you about this thing using conventionally oppressive fashion media to present empowering images of women and shit and all you can say is you like the shoes. Your brain is _so_ colonized.”

“Bitch. There’s no reason a woman can’t be a kick ass whatever-Nimue-was – “

“She was a badass magical queen is what she was.”

“ – and not still wear awesome shoes.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“I have a surprise for you,” Hermione’s come up behind Draco, wrapped her arms around him. He’s been standing at the desk, leaning over and checking reports on rural responses to their propaganda – thank Merlin for barmaids and gossips because that’s the way he’s been keeping track of public sentiment. “Something special for my favorite.”

“Oh?” He puts his hands over hers, enjoys the feel of her pressed along his back. “Potter fell on his knees in the street, begged your forgiveness, and you kicked him in the face?”

She laughs. “Better.”

“Better than that?” He turns around, leans against the desk and pulls her hips to him. She’s freshly out of the shower, damp and smelling faintly of vanilla, wearing something black and silky he’s not seen before. “What could be better than that? Other than this,” he plucks at the fabric, runs his hands over her, enjoying the feel of it, and of her under it. “I like this quite a bit, I have to admit.”

“I thought you would.” She bites the inside of her lip and looks up at him. “You know how Theo wanted me showing by the day of the election?”

His eyes start to widen.

“Barring any problems, I will be.”

“A baby,” he breathes out, and looks at her for confirmation. When she nods he puts his hands, almost reverently, over her abdomen. “My child. Our child.” He pulls her into a tight hug and she can feel him shaking slightly as he holds her. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to pagyn for the fabulous limerick. There are more to share in future chapters.
> 
> Posy, in Ballet Shoes, is a bit of an insensitive, self-absorbed twit but she is monstrously brilliant. All three books Hermione mentions are about orphan girls and all are wonderful even if you aren’t 10. When I originally wrote this, I had no idea Emma Watson was in that movie so that overlap is merely a happy coincidence.


	20. Chapter 20

"You are a fucking moron," Percy Weasley slams Ron against the wall of their dining room and holds him there. "I knew - hell, everyone knew - that you were a worthless lotus eater, but what the fuck were you thinking?"

"What are you talking about," Ron gasps. 

"You don't even know?" Percy lets him go with disgust. "Have you even looked at the _Prophet_ today? And, no, I don't mean the bloody bedamned society section."

Harry, sitting at the table, pulls the paper towards him and turns it back to the front page. “_Scandalous Conditions at Order of Phoenix Memorial Orphanage_." He looks up at Percy, who's still fuming. "I don't understand."

"They've printed a long expose on that damn orphanage, with pictures – pictures! – of all the children. It’s like something out of a bloody documentary about privation." Percy snaps. "Part one of two. Ronald," he draws out his brother's name, "has gone on record - on record! - as saying our family is responsible for the conditions at that place, that they are character building. Character building!"

"So?" Ron glares at him. 

"Ron, I think you should look at these photos." Harry looks up at his friend, who snatches the paper off the table. Æthel glares at him from the pages, a squirming toddler on her hip; he recognizes that look. What a bitch that little girl is; she and her new father deserve each other. He flips through the other pictures and admits, at least to himself, that it’s pretty bad. He hadn’t realized the place was quite that bleak. No wonder even Nott, wanker extraordinaire, had been moved to buy the kids some toys.

Still, he has no intention of confessing that to Percy. "Who cares about a bunch of Death Eater brats?" he asks, tossing the paper back down.

"Oh," hisses Percy, "I think the general public will care quite a lot. People tend to get their chains yanked by pictures of miserably poor children. Funny, that. No one will remember these brats' parents waged a war of terror. What the take away is here is that our family thinks keeping orphans ground down into abject-bloody-poverty is 'character building.'"

"Again," Ron snaps, "so what? What does it matter?"

"There's an election in six months, you maggot," Percy snarls. "An election my job hinges on, an election your _father’s _job may well hinge on, and you just dragged our family into the mud with your careless little comment. What were you thinking? And this is just part one. Who wants to bet that part two will follow the money?" The man rubs his face with both his hands. “I am so fucked. We are all so fucked.”

"Merlin," Ron throws up his hands. "So we say the place is under-funded and if people want conditions to be better taxes will have to go up. Again, who cares?"

"You might actually be too stupid to live," Percy sinks down into a seat at the table and stares at his brother as a cringing house-elf puts a plate in front of him. “It’s as if you have no idea at all how all the wealth you enjoy spending so much shows up in your pockets.”

"Hermione," says Harry, abruptly.

"What?" Percy turns to look at the other man.

"Hermione would care, that's who. She'd care a lot about deprived children."

"I'm not following you." Percy leans forward and gives Harry his attention. His younger brother’s friend may have shot himself in the foot, politically, but he’s always been good at putting random strands together to see the larger picture.

"So what?" Ron mutters. "All she'd do is make up a stupid 'We Love Orphans' club with badges and earnest meetings."

Harry shakes his head. "That's what she would have done at 14, sure. Now?" He looks at Percy. "I think, I really think, that she's gunning for Minister. She’ll resign from her little nothing Ministry job in horror over this on Monday and run on a reform platform. This reveal, the timing of it, has her manipulative little fingerprints all over it." Percy grunts and Harry continues. "She was there, at that press event, you know. She was in the doorway; she flipped me off right after Astoria made her little announcement and then disappeared."

Ron picks the pages back up and looks at them again while Percy narrows his eyes. "Ronniekins," he taps his fingers on the table. "Did you do anything to that woman to make her justifiably angry at you? To make her angry enough to decide to go after our whole family?"

"She volunteers," Ron said suddenly, opting to ignore Percy’s question. "At the orphanage. And her new best friend, Nott, is adopting one of those hell-spawn. She was there, with a photographer, when I, uh, said that. He mentioned he was going to see the brat again at some party."

Percy looks at both of them. "She was the brains behind your trio, wasn't she?"

Ron sputters but Harry nods slowly.

"And she just married Malfoy, didn't she?"

Another nod. 

"In a fucking perfect bloody simple ceremony, practically designed to appeal to every old -school pureblood biddy in the country," Ron says in dawning horror. “With Nott, who’s adopting an orphan, walking her down the aisle. Her ‘brother’ Theodore Nott.”

“And she and Malfoy are taking on Astoria’s kid,” Harry breathes out and all three men look at one another. “What’s the byline on those photos?” Harry asks, pulling the paper back to him, searching for a name. “Ten to one says it’s the same guy who did her wedding. She has a photographer in her pocket, plus at least one reporter.”

Percy looks at his younger brother. "Plus Narcissa Malfoy, and who knows how many other purebloods. If this were a chess game..."

"We'd be in check," the man whispers. “And I walked right into the orphanage comment. Bugger me.”

"But not check-mate," Harry says. "Luna."

Ron looks at him, confused. "Looney Lovegood?"

"Luna was her bridesmaid. She's such a scatterbrain I'm sure we can get her to tell us what Hermione's up to. It'll just take a little work to convince her we're friends; she’s never had any because she’s just so weird. We were friends of a sort once. We can be again."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione retches again and glares through her hair at Draco. “This is all your fault.”

“I…” he looks at her, helplessly. “Can I do anything?”

“Get out,” she hisses, reaching for her wand. “Get out before I throw you out.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“She nearly took Ron’s head off,” Hermione’s looking fondly at Æthel as she gravely welcomes each guest to her party. 

Thank all the gods morning sickness, at least for her, actually restricts itself to the morning hours. Astoria, as she recalls, hadn’t been so lucky. If she’d had to come to this party feeling sick she might have killed Draco, or at the very least maimed the man. Given that, most of the time at least, she’s rather fond of him that would have been unfortunate. She would have felt guilt. Eventually. Maybe. Being pregnant sucks. 

She wonders whether there’s a spell to make men feel all the joys of growing another person inside their body. Pansy, she thinks, might enjoy looking that up.

Æthel has been scrubbed and starched and curled until she looks like a beloved child of the elite; in her simple white eyelet dress with a big green bow at her waist you can barely see the grungy orphan from the paper. Not, at least, until you look into her eyes where the same fierce look hides, tapped down under a justified fear of disappointing her ‘Aunt Cissa’.

“Did she, now.” Narcissa has spent a week ruthlessly drilling Æthel in pureblood etiquette to prepare her for this party. She’s more than pleased with the girl; she’s smart, as Hermione had promised, but more, she sees patterns. She doesn’t just memorize the rules but sees the reasons behind them; she’ll charm everyone and no one will suspect the keen mind she’s hiding behind those big, blue eyes until it’s much too late. 

“He tried to insult Theo.” Hermione smirks and looks sideways at her mother-in-law who smiles. They’ve both stepped back to let the girl play hostess, an important symbol. Everyone who comes in greets her very seriously and thanks her for inviting them, flashing Narcissa and Hermione complicit smiles above the girl’s head. Every woman there remembers the first time she was allowed to formally greet guests at a party; they all both smooth the child’s way and measure her.

“That’s surprising,” Narcissa murmurs. “The Weasleys aren’t generally clever enough to insult anyone.”

“I did say ‘tried’.”

Narcissa wonders which of her late husband’s compatriots had fathered the girl, who was her mother; she’s researched the history and the child was found wandering near a nest of routed Death Eaters, unable or unwilling to speak, carrying a small back pack with some picture books, some carefully made sandwiches, and a change of clothes, all with her first name neatly written on them.

“She has beautiful manners,” the elder Mrs. Parkinson has descended upon them. As usual, she’s overdressed and in colors that don’t become her. If cornered the older woman admits she enjoys making the perfectly groomed women in her set squirm with her elaborate array of feathered turbans and sparking purple robes. “They can’t cut me,” she’ll say. “They don’t dare, so I do as I please.” Still despite, or perhaps because of, her eccentricity, her social approval carries a lot of weight.

“She’s a good girl,” Narcissa agrees. “Can I get you anything to drink, Eustacia?”

“Champagne, please” the woman asks and with a quick gesture Narcissa has summoned one of the catering staff and is passing a flute to her guest. “She does you credit, Narcissa. Don’t think I don’t see your hand in this.” She turns to the younger woman. “So, I understand you and my granddaughter have become friends. Somewhat shocking to me, I admit. Gyffindor?”

Hermione shrugs elegantly and says, “None of us are perfect, ma’am,” and the woman laughs delightedly.

“You have cheek. What a refreshing change.” She and Narcissa exchange a conspiratorial look. “Most young women these days are simpering missish idiots. Like that Ginevra girl.”

“Harry Potter’s wife?” Hermione takes a sip from her glass of sparkling water. “I’m afraid she and I have been estranged since shortly after graduation so I’m not wholly up to date on her exploits. You’ll have to fill me in. I promise to act shocked and horrified.”

“Mostly gallivanting about in inadequate clothing,” the woman snorts. “In my day…”

“In your day, Eustacia, you were caught skinny dipping in the fountains in front of muggles. Forty-five people had to be obliviated.” Narcissa raises her eyebrows.

“Well,” the woman is utterly unabashed, “I had the legs for it then.” 

Hermione smothers a laugh and Eustacia Parkinson idly twirls her champagne flute in her hand. “We can’t all be political masterminds, my dear, some of us are just party girls.” Caught off guard, Hermione jerks back and blinks several times.

“I’m sorry?” she asks. “I don’t follow.”

“Of course you do,” the woman pats her cheek. “We’ll be voting for you, of course. Now go reassure that child she’s doing well or chat with your friends or something so Narcissa and I can gossip in private.”

Hermione murmurs, “It was lovely to meet you,” and drifts over to whisper “You look beautiful” in Æthel’s ear before joining Draco, who wraps an arm around her waist and says, “You’ve survived an encounter with the Parkinson Dragon, I see.”

The rest of her inner circle have gathered around; they haven’t had the chance to socialize in a while and Hermione’s surprised by how much she misses the lot of them, by how nice it is to meet without overt plotting. Not, of course, that this little gathering is apolitical. Far from it. Still, it’s significantly more fun than going over economic reports.

Theo looks over at Eustacia Parkinson and laughs. “She’s a nightmare but if she likes you, you’re golden. Did she tell you about the time she did a naked swan dive into a cake at a Ministry party?”

“No!” Hermione breathes out. “I did hear about a skinny-dipping incident”

“Yep.” Theo swirls his wine in his glass. “She dove into the cake and, while everyone stared in shock, ran out of the room wearing nothing but the frosting that clung to her. My grandfather remembered it well, reminisced at length; apparently she was what he called ‘a looker’ in her youth.”

“And here I thought,” Hermione teases him, “That you pureblood types were all conservative stick-in-the-muds.”

“I believe,” Blaise says with a light laugh, “that Eustacia Parkinson is the exception that proves the rule.”

“Rather,” Hermione looks at him sideways, “like Luna?” The man flushes and Greg chokes back a laugh. “How was Russia?”

“Cold,” he mutters. “But productive.”

“Where is Luna, anyway?” Draco asks and Hermione points. The blonde girl is talking to an elderly man who might be listening to her raptly or might be trying to look down her dress. Hermione suspects it’s the latter and nudges Blaise. “Go rescue her before she decides to do a swan dive of her own just to amuse herself.” He pales and hurries off to his girlfriend’s side while Greg laughs again.

“Never thought I’d see Blaise Zabini so whipped,” Pansy says with satisfaction. “Everything we’ve done would be worth it for no other reason than that.”

“Or just for Theo’s adoption. How’s the girl holding up?” Astoria asks, shifting Alicia from one arm to the other while Pansy makes faces at the baby. “Merlin, the first time my mother made me do the meet and greet on my own I was so scared I almost wet myself.”

“She’s got this,” Theo looks fondly over at his daughter, who’s smiling sweetly as the last few guests arrive. “I’ve kept an eye on her the whole time and we set up a hand signal in case she wanted me to swoop in and save her; she hasn’t given it once. Next stage, formal presentation, then dinner and she’ll be sent up to bed.”

“Compared to a week of etiquette lessons with Narcissa, I suspect this is easy,” Hermione reaches out and snags a bite from the passing caterer. 

Astoria shudders. “I cannot imagine. The very thought of being cooped up with your mother, Draco, at ten, for a week, makes me want to start drinking. Heavily.”

“That would certainly be Ginny’s solution,” Daphne says archly and the entire group laughs. 

Narcissa dings on her glass and everyone turned towards her; she’s taken center stage at the head of the room and is ready to begin the formal presentations. “It is,” she said, “my great honor and privilege to stand as mother today to not one but two wonderful young people as we welcome their children into our fold. Theodore,” she makes a pretense of looking about the room, “would you come up here please.”

Theo, Æthel following on his heels, beams at Narcissa as he approaches her. “We all know Theodore Nott and you should have met his lovely new daughter Æthel as you came in. Her adoption has been finalized and I am pleased to introduce her to you tonight.”

Æthel bobs a curtsy towards the assembled adults and everyone coos at her. A prettily behaved, beautiful child delights everyone, even the sharks who are already planning to invite her to little children’s parties and get closer to the adults by means of the child.

“To the young Lady Nott,” a voice calls out from the back of the room and the girl looks charmingly confused as everyone raises their glasses until Theo stage whispers, “That’s you, sweetheart,” at which point she blushes and curtsies again. She knows, of course, exactly what her title is. A week with Narcissa Malfoy and she can recite the pedigree of every person in the room; she knows who has sons she’ll be expected to charm, who has daughters she’ll be expected to befriend. She’s been told who the sharks are, though she could have figured that out without advance warning. She’s also fairly sure ‘Aunt Cissa’ is one of the toothier sharks in the shiver.

“Now,” Narcissa looks around again, “Astoria?” The new mother joins them at the front of the room. “Hermione? Draco?” As the couple begins to wind their way towards her, Narcissa continues, “We all know Astoria’s had a difficult year, and I am so pleased that my son and daughter-in-law have offered –“

“Insisted!” Astoria interjects with a laugh.

“- on taking on the role of godparents for little Alicia.” A round of polite clapping greets this announcement, and whispers as people lean in towards one another. Astoria’s not quite socially the thing right now, even with Malfoy sponsorship, and her own mother is notably not in attendance. Still, no one wants to offend Narcissa at her own party so people offer congratulations as the Malfoy matriarch moves away and Hermione takes the baby.

“She’s quite a catch,” Eustacia Parkison murmurs to Narcissa, watching Hermione.

Narcissa looks over at Hermione, gently bouncing Alicia in her arms, a white cloth placed over her shoulder. The two women both radiate understated, graceful privilege and Narcissa smiles to think of how quickly Draco has transformed the girl he married from an utter disaster – she’s never, ever, going to forget that horrid purse the girl had carried - to this scion of quiet power. “Yes,” she responds to the elder Mrs. Parkinson. “She’s a dear girl and I’m so pleased Draco found her. The Malfoys – and the Blacks for that matter – have always prided ourselves on being able to spot true gold, even if it’s lying in the gutter.”

“Which she was.” The woman sips from her wine. “It’s a pity about Astoria; I take it her own mother still refuses to speak to her?”

“She’ll change her tune,” Narcissa smiles. “I happen to suspect – “

And then Greg clears his throat and Narcissa catches Hermione’s eye. The two women smile at one another; one of their big fears had been that Greg would miss his cue tonight. He’s a sweet enough boy, Hermione had said, and Narcissa had completed her thought, but he’s a bit thick. When Hermione takes the baby, they’d instructed him, that’s when you do it.

“Astoria,” the man is saying, blushing fiercely at being the center of attention, “I know this last year has been hard for you, and I’ve come to respect you immensely, how you’ve conducted yourself with grace and class no matter what, and more, I’ve come to,” he gulps, “I’ve come to love you and I was hoping you would do me the honor of…” and then his eloquence, not good at the best of times, fails him and he mutely holds out his hand with a small box on it.

Astoria’s eyes widen and she takes the box, opens it and gasps. Don’t overdo it, Narcissa thinks to herself. “Greg, I…” the younger woman stammers, “I…this is too much.” She waves her hand towards her baby. “I’m…”

“I was hoping,” the man ducks his head, “maybe you would let me adopt the baby, raise her as ours, not just yours?”

The entire room of powerful women melts into a sentimental pile of adoration at that and, as Hermione casually walks over to Narcissa, baby in her arms, Greg slides the impressive diamond onto Astoria’s hand. The guests swarm and flutter around the young mother, admiring the ring, praising Greg. 

“That’s just the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” the elder Mrs. Parkinson gushes. “You are one very lucky little girl,” she coos at Alicia. 

“It’s more than romantic,” Mr. Parkinson, who has come up behind their little group, hands his wife another glass and offers one to Hermione, who shakes her head but thanks him quietly. “It was the right bloody thing to do. That poor girl; it was good of you, Narcissa, to sponsor her like this but what she needs, what she needed, was a husband.”

“Greg’s a good boy,” Narcissa inclines her head towards the older man gracefully. “He knows the importance of taking care of our own.”

Mr. Parkison snags a bacon wrapped starter from a passing tray and huffs with importance. “I’m glad, for her sake, he was willing to take her on, even tainted this like. Values, Narcissa. It’s what separates us from the riff raff.” He glares at Hermione. “Your little Order, missy…”

“Not my Order,” she protests and he nods, pleased.

“That little Order, they’re a plague, I tell you. Jumped up hooligans, no sense of decency. Seducing and abandoning a girl from a good family. Why, that man ought to be drawn and quartered, I tell you.” He chomps down on his starter and Hermione smothers a smile. 

“I’m sure Harry feels terrible,” is all she murmurs. “But I’m so glad Greg has stepped up.”

“He should feel terrible! In my day things like that didn’t happen because men behaved with decency and honor.” He grabs from another passing tray and admires the behind of the girl carrying it. “Not like today.” He pops the treat in his mouth and says, around it, “Men like Greg, men like your Draco, they’re what we need.”

“And,” Narcissa interjects smoothly, “Women like our sweet Hermione. Did you know she’s going to run for Minister of Magic?”

“No!” The man wipes his mouth and assesses her. “Planning on parlaying your war work into public service? Good on you.” He looks around for another passing tray but, with none in immediate reach, looks back at the woman standing in front of him. “What’s your platform?”

“Well, we haven’t formally announced anything yet so you have to promise to keep mum,” Hermione smiles at the man and he leans forward, pleased to pick up a political secret before the masses; Hermione smugly thinks to herself that he’ll repeat this to every power player in the room before desert and every last pureblood will support her no matter what more popular platitudes she mouths for the masses to consume. “We, I, plan to reexamine the post-war asset forfeitures; it’s my belief that some over-enthusiastic bureaucrats may have taken more than was appropriate. If that’s the case, we’ll be returning property to the original owners, of course.” Hermione shifts the baby to her other shoulder and Narcissa reaches over to move the spit up cloth as well. “I also think we should look at the composition of the Wizengamot; in recent years the body has expanded beyond it’s original make up and I don’t feel that’s good for wizarding Britain. Keeping a smaller body, made up of representatives from traditional families, will ensure we maintain a connection to our past even as we move into the future with deliberation and caution.”

Mr. Parkinson narrows his eyes at the young woman and smiles very slowly. “I think I like you.”

“I’m happy to have met with your approval,” she smiles back. “Of course, you realize some of these changes will have to be made, well, quietly.”

Mr. Parkinson looks back at Narcissa, then across the room at Draco, who’s holding court, surrounded by young members of various powerful families. “I don’t think I ever offered you appropriate congratulations on your marriage. I see that you and Draco suit one another well and I am pleased to see such a delightful new face in our little circle.” He hands his glass to his wife. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Not at all,” Hermione smiles. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Parkinson.”

One of the catering staff walks by and Mrs. Parkinson puts her empty glass down on the tray, takes another, then a second and holds it out to Hermione. “No, I can’t.” Hermione shakes her head and Mrs. Parkinson raises her eyebrows, exchanges a glance with Narcissa. “Might we…” she trails off.

“It’s really too soon to be…” Hermione similarly doesn’t finish her thought but all three women smile at one another and Mrs. Parkinson raises her glass in Hermione’s direction. “To you, my dear, and to the next generation of leaders. May this year bring you everything you, and we, desire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to look it up; the mass noun for a group of sharks is a shiver. A shiver of sharks. And people said I wouldn’t learn anything from fanfiction.


	21. Chapter 21

Blaise pours the blood into the bath and Hermione looks at him, her face scrunched in distaste.

"Are you really sure this is a good idea," she mutters, for the fifth time that hour. "It seems so disgusting."

Blaise and Draco look at the red bath water and both paste cheerful smiles on. "It doesn't seem that bad to me," Draco says.

"Liar." Her sour voice makes him laugh.

"Just get in, soak, be sure to totally immerse yourself, and then rinse off. By the time you're done the stew should be ready." Draco puts a coaxing note into his voice, "Luna brought good bread."

"Oh, goody." Because she has such an appetite right now. Nothing like contemplating soaking in blood to really make a girl hungry.

"And Blaise brought wine..."

"What's the appropriate vintage to serve with sacrificial rabbit, anyway?" 

Blaise puts his hand over his heart and signed dramatically. "I'm wounded - utterly wounded - that you think I, blood purist and elitist snob, might bring the wrong wine to a blood magic ritual. It's as if you don't even know me."

"Whatever. It’s not like I can have any of it anyway." Hermione stares at the red water. "I assume I don't have to do this in front of an audience, right? That you plan to leave?"

Both men start edging towards the door; she adds, right as Blaise is almost out of the room, "This won't hurt the baby, right?"

"No!" he blurts out. "Trust me, I double and triple checked that once you were..."

"Good. Because if it did -"

"You'd kill me?" He smiles at her.

"Oh no." She smiles back. "If I killed you it would be a mistake."

He blows her a kiss. "My dear, bloodthirsty, terrifying Lady, trust me, your little princeling is safe. We all - all - want your dynasty firmly established."

She turns to look back at the bloody water and sighs. "Might as well get this over with," and both men slip away.

. . . . . . . . . .

_~ Dishes and Treats ~_

_The wizarding world is happy to welcome its newest princess; Theodore Nott, last scion of the venerable House of Nott, has adopted young miss Æthel Doe, now Nott, from the rightly maligned Phoenix Orphanage. The crème-de-la-crème of society came to Narcissa Malfoy’s town house on Saturday to toast the young Lady Nott. This columnist hopes that Lord Nott won’t stop his charitable work at the orphanage now that he’s brought his own little girl home; those children need someone to watch out for them and it’s clear it’s not going to be the Order of the Phoenix, after whom the institution was named and whose members sit prominently on the board._

“Lady Nott?” Harry raises his brows and looks at Ginny for confirmation. 

“It’s technically her title,” the woman responds, drinking her coffee. Drinking what Harry _hopes_ is just coffee. “Nott’s mother’s dead and she’s the only female member of the House. Never seen anyone pretentious enough to dredge up that old custom, though, especially not for a little kid.”

“_Lord_ Nott?” Ron asks, in disgust. “Could that rotter _be_ any more vile?”

“Head of a pureblood House,” Ginny shrugs and swirls the creamy liquid in her cup. “Again, never seen anyone be enough of a pompous prat to actually _use_ the old title system, not even Malfoy which is saying something, but it isn’t inaccurate.”

“Does that mean,” Harry leans back and looks at Ginny, “I’m Lord Potter?”

Percy shakes his head. “No, sorry; your mother was muggle-born, so, formally, the House of Potter is no more.”

“Ah well,” Harry reaches awkwardly out to Ginny, who endures his touch but hardly welcomes it. “I guess you don’t get to be Lady Potter.”

“I’ll live,” she snorts with obvious disdain. “The whole idea of medieval pureblood titles makes my skin crawl. Who wants to go back to that kind of world?”

“I think,” Percy says, “you’re all missing the main problem here, which isn’t that the gossip columnist is using absurd titles but the nasty little dig at the Order of the Phoenix. We’ve become the easy target and that’s not good.”

“Has part two in the series come out yet?” Ron’s shoving a piece of toast into his mouth and Percy looks away in disgust. 

“Not yet, and I’m going into the office to try to get some damage control done ahead of time.”

“How bad is it going to be?” Harry asks.

“That depends on Russia,” Percy mutters. At their confused looks he adds, “I’ll explain later.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“Marcus,” Hermione’s lounging in her chair, wand at the ready. Theo’s brought the man up and he’s looking around the bare room with a mixture of disdain and confusion. “I’ve been told you’re asking questions about me.”

Marcus Flint seems to be slowly realizing that, despite the lack of overt pomp, he’d best haul out his most formal manners; he lowers himself to his knees, albeit less gracefully than Theo’s ever managed, and lays his wand in front of him. Hermione’s cold smile warms just a tad as she runs her fingers along her own wand, caressing it. Marcus watches her hand as if mesmerized. “I have heard rumors that a new dark power is rising,” he finally murmurs when Theo clears his throat from where he’s leaning against the far wall. “I’ve heard rumors that it’s you.”

“Fascinating,” Hermione looks up at Theo. “Is this your doing?”

“We are,” the man replies, “trying to get the masses ready for you, yes. Given that the election is not really in jeopardy I’m moving on a bit.”

“Don’t worry my pretty little head about it?” she asks and Marcus looks nervous. A spat between his contact and the rising power was probably not something he had expected.

“Lady,” Theo rolls his eyes. “You have enough to do being a candidate, plus that thing where you spend most of every morning being miserable. I thought we’d agreed I would work on the longer-term project of doing away with the pesky democracy problem.”

“True enough. I’m sorry, Theo. I’ve been irritable lately.” she turns her attention back to Marcus. “What do the rumors tell you?”

“That,” he stumbles, clearly having a hard time reconciling the scrubby school girl he remembered and had probably still unconsciously expected with the woman in front of him. “That Nimue is back, another lady out of the mists, that she plans to restore pureblood privileges, derail the Order.”

“And you believed this?”

“I… I thought it was probably more poetic than actually truthful,” he confesses. “But that you might be a…”

“Excellent.” Her craving for caramels is overcoming her interest in this conversation. She supposes she’ll have to bloody well comb through this man’s brain and all but where is Draco with her food? She refocuses. “How good, Mr. Flint, are you at violence?” 

He looks up, confused. Gods. The way these people seem to think she’ll just wave her wand and go from Minister to Queen with no objections is kind of ridiculous. Even a shiny, new tyranny, coming in to replace the broken democracy that exploited orphans and starved the poor, is going to have _some_ detractors. 

She plans to have those detractors killed, of course, or at least enough of them to send a message, but she’s under no illusion that they won’t exist.

“You see, I suspect we will need a bit of an army to enforce the transition from Minister to Queen, well, Regent if we want to be technical about where we’re going. Theo will ensure that most people actually _want_ to get rid of all those pesky, corruptible elected offices but there are always people who need more - vigorous, shall we say? - convincing. Or people against whose attacks I’ll need defending. I foresee anyone who needs vigorous convincing will be moved to attack and we’ll have to defend ourselves. It will, of course, be terribly sad. I’m sure I’ll sniffle a bit at public events while promising to keep everyone safe from the wretched remnants of the Order, driven to violence at the end.”

Theo is trying not to laugh while respect slowly blossoms in Marcus Flint’s eyes. Flint had, despite his hints, not been fully convinced Hermione was anything other than some figurehead Draco and Theo were manipulating. Of course, that misconception suits Theo; he wants to keep anyone against them confused and focusing attention on the inner circle rather than the queen. He, Draco – even Blaise – can take anyone. Hermione’s a tad distracted by the near constant nausea and her inexplicable recent obsession with caramels. And, of course, she’s the only one of them truly crucial to the final plans.

“You want me,” Flint breathes, “to put together an army for you?”

“Knights of the Lady, maybe?” Theo asks, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps they could start as a service organization?”

“Oh, I like that, Theo,” she smiles across the room at him. “Your ideas are always good.”

“I live to serve,” he murmurs.

“He does, too,” she looks back at Marcus, suddenly serious. “I expect loyalty to be absolute, upon quite literal pain of death. A slow death.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“Before we begin…” she starts the tedious explanation of the legilimancy and the man in front of her nods, eyes shining. She looks up at Theo who mouths ‘well done’ at her. Another convert, another soul committed to putting a woman he’d despised as filthy and beneath him on a throne of absolute power.

Sometimes she likes the irony of that even more than the power she can already almost taste.

It tastes a bit like caramel. Salted caramel.

Where the fuck is Draco with her food?

. . . . . . . . . .

Percy Weasley looks up at his boss, at a man he’s respected for years. “They seized _all_ of it?” he mumbles, horrified. “It’s all gone?”

Shacklebolt nods, grimly.

“What do we do?” Percy asks, hopelessly?

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione frowns at Theo and Æthel when they come in. "I love your daughter, but I'm not sure a strategy meeting is the best place for a child." Much of the inner circle sprawls about the main room of Hermione’s old flat and she has an actual chalkboard propped against the wall where she’s sketched out the assorted money issues they plan to exploit. A large bowl of candy sits in the middle of the floor and Æthel spots it at once.

"I know," Theo rakes his hand through his hair, "but Pansy was supposed to watch her and now she can't. You either get both of us or neither."

"You need a nanny," Hermione snorts, "Not Pansy."

"I'll be quiet," Æthel promises.

"It's not that, love," Hermione smiles at the child. "It's that..."

"And I won't repeat ANYTHING." The girl looks up at her, her blue eyes pleading to be allowed to stay.

"Oh, let her listen," Draco sighs. "She might as well grow up learning this stuff; she's going to live her whole life in a political snake-pit."

"It's true," Luna's got knitting out and is staring with a frown at her pattern. "She's the heir to one of the last noble houses and the niece of the future queen. She's valuable. Oh, perl _four_."

"How's Harry?" Blaise drawls, running his fingers through her hair.

Luna shrugs. "Worried. I don't know why, though."

"Umm, because he doesn't want Hermione to take over the world." Theo raises his brows.

"It's a waste of energy to worry about things you cannot change." She starts ripping out stitches and leans closer to her pattern. "Did you know the Prophet has started a series on great women in our history? Last week it was Boudicca."

"Random," mutters Draco.

"If I've learned one thing, mate, it's that she's never random." Blaise pulls the paper off the floor and flips through it. "Let me guess, this week it’s Nimue?"

"Next week," Luna hands her ball of yarn to Æthel. "This week it's her."

"Æthel?" Theo stares at the woman. He's still not wholly sold on the idea of Luna.

"Æthelflæd."

"Hey," the girl squeals, "she has my name." Blaise hands over the paper to the little girl who admires a drawing of a fierce-looking woman holding a scepter and sitting on a throne. "Lady of the Mercians," she reads.

"Tell me about her," Hermione smiles; Daphne’s plan to dominate every media she can with Nimue stories appears to be working. 

The girl skims the article and then says, "She ruled for 8 years, from 911, and not just as a figurehead either. She led the soldiers and built thirteen fortresses."

"Not a bad namesake," Theo ruffles the girl's hair. "Now hush and let us strategize, princess. We need to make sure your aunt gets elected."

"I hate to suggest using the girl," Blaise interjects, "but I suspect if she 'carelessly revealed' something to Potter on an ice cream date with Luna he'd take it as absolute gospel."

"Because children never lie?" Hermione looks doubtful. "He knows perfectly well we lied all the time at that age."

"It's worth trying," Blaise shrugs. "And can I say how much I love the endless revelations about how you were not the goody-two-shoes in school that we all thought you were." 

Æthel squirms with eagerness, looking from face to face.

"Do you think she could handle it?" Hermione is still frowning at the idea, and she tosses a dirty look in Blaise’s direction, but Theo laughs.

"Any child who can do a meet and greet without a single mishap at Narcissa Malfoy's party can manage to skillfully drop misinformation over ice cream. The blush when she 'realized' she was Lady Nott was especially brilliant."

"You're so invested in how sneaky she is. What will you do," Hermione laughs back at him, "if she gets sorted into Hufflepuff after all?"

"Laugh my arse off and wait for her to take over the whole lot of them."

"Well, sweetling," Hermione looks at the girl. "If we can come up with something for you to let slip do you think you can accidentally drop false information to my old friend?"

The girl nods, her eyes wide.

"Theo, is that okay with you? I don't want to..."

"My life is yours, Lady." He's very serious for a moment, then he grins. "And, ice cream with Luna and a little spilled misinformation is a good start down the path of a life of political manipulation. It's not exactly like you’re asking her to take the Dark Mark."

"Luna?"

"I like ice cream."

"OK, so now that we've decided to exploit the innocence of children, can we move on to how we plan to explicate the complex economics and, more importantly, how we plan to make the Russia incident highlight the weakness of the entire current political system? Theo,” she turns to him, “I want to keep Percy’s name out of it for a little while.”

“Why?”

She smiles. “What’s the penalty for embezzlement?”

“Prison,” he shrugs. “And your point?”

“What do you think Percy Weasley would do to keep himself out of prison?”

Blaise grabs a caramel from the candy bowl then, looking at Hermione slowly puts it back and takes a chocolate instead. “Just about anything.”

“I think,” she looks at Blaise, “I want him to endorse me.”

“You want Ron’s brother to endorse you?” Draco asks, then, when she nods, he laughs. “You are really evil with the way you like to twist the knife, you know that?”

“I thought that was what you liked about me.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

_~ Hermione Granger Resigns From Ministry in Protest over Phoenix Orphanage ~_

_War heroine Hermione Granger-Malfoy resigned from the Ministry of Magic today in protest over conditions at the Order of the Phoenix Memorial Orphanage._

_She cited government funding improprieties resulting in sub-standard conditions for the institution’s residents as the main reason for her departure._

_The resignation is notable not only because Ms. Granger-Malfoy is a former member of the Order that founded the orphanage but because she had a long-standing personal relationship with the family most connected to the management of the facility, the Weasleys._

_Arthur Weasley runs the Muggle Artifact Registration Office at the Ministry of Magic and his wife, Molly Weasley, is the head of the board of the orphanage in question. Recent accusations have emerged that the couple embezzled money from the orphanage budget. Their youngest son, well-known playboy Ronald Weasley, has been recently quoted that the conditions at the orphanage are ‘character building’._

_Political pundits agree that this resignation opens the way for Ms. Granger-Malfoy to declare her own candidacy for Minister of Magic. She is widely considered a shoo-in should she decide to run, especially in the wake of this current scandals that likely remove both Percy Weasley, the current Deputy Minister, and Harry Potter from contention._


	22. Chapter 22

_Hermione Granger-Malfoy to Seek Minister of Magic Position_

_Hermione Granger-Malfoy formally became a candidate for Minister of Magic today, announcing this morning that she would seek to be elected to the position._

_Granger-Malfoy, recently wed to Draco Malfoy, heir of the House of Malfoy, is considered a leading candidate for the position despite limited experience in government. Polls of key families indicate she is widely supported by the pureblood elite and the elder Lord Parkinson, in a statement released almost immediately after the announcement, called Malfoy-Granger, “an excellent young leader whom I greatly respect; I welcome her in the work of getting the country back on track.”_

_Granger-Malfoy said she would hold “barroom chats” to discuss the “bold but practical changes we need to overcome years of Order of the Phoenix administration failures.”_

_"Only a new Minister can renew the promise of wizarding Britain — the idea that if you work hard and play by the rules you can count on the security that you need to raise your family. These are our basic values that are under attack from the current administration every day," Granger-Malfoy said. _

_The announcement was the latest step in Granger-Malfoy’s remarkable political and personal journey — from muggle-born witch to war heroine to young Lady Malfoy to front-runner for Minister of Magic. With the election only four short months away no one expects any other viable candidates to challenge Granger-Malfoy’s run and most assume the Wizengamot will ratify the popular vote with no hesitation._

. . . . . . . .

Ron flips through the morning paper, looking, now, more for information about whatever Hermione is up to than for pictures of himself in the society pages. The announcement she’s running for Minister, well, that he was expecting. He’s not especially bothered by that; she’ll never win. He’s not sure what to base that opinion on other than the sheer ludicrousness of a muggle-born as Minister of Magic but it’s his opinion and he therefore holds it strongly. 

He figures all she really wanted to do was hurt Harry, to get after the man essentially chose his mate over her. In the divorce, as he thinks about it, he got Harry. She was a fool if she’d thought it would have been any other way. Harry was married to his sister, Molly thought of him as a son. Harry would never have walked away from _family_ for anyone.

Not even for Hermione.

Ron smiles to himself as he flips another page. No fawning articles praising that wanker, Nott, for adopting some kid because he couldn’t get himself an heir any other way. No articles spelling out whatever it is about Russia that’s got Percy’s knickers in a twist. Looks like a good day, other than the exercise in futility that is Hermione’s announcement she’s running for Minister. 

Then he sees the limerick. Down in the corner of one page, a box around it, underlined, in capital letters, was a limerick.

_A Phoenix once came to Pawtucket  
Their wealth could be held in a bucket  
Though they claimed revolution  
Over time their solution  
Was to steal other’s wealth and say fuck it._

He sees it torn out of the paper tacked to the wall at the bar later. He sees it chalked on a wall. He hears it when he’s walking. 

He blames Hermione that the Order – that _he – _has become a laughingstock. 

He’s not sure how, but he knows this has to be her fault.

. . . . . . . . . .

Running for Minister, as Theo has pointed out, doesn’t mean the end of Hermione’s volunteer work. Being publicly charitable is, if anything, more important. Therefore, pregnant and queasy or not, she spends every Saturday reading stories and reassuring children that their turn will come, that Æthel’s adoption is not a fluke, that someday they’ll have parents.

She has every intention of making that a priority when she’s elected. She’s quite sure Narcissa will help. It’ll be a dry run of the changeling project; if people can open their hearts to pureblood orphans it’ll be that much easier to convince them to take in kidnapped muggle-born babies.

For now, though, she reads. Even with only part one of the exposé published, private donations have been pouring in. Toys, books, clothes. The place may still be a cinder-block prison but at least now it’s a cinder-block prison with more resources. Hermione’s got her head down reading, “However many years she lived, Mary always felt that she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow” when she hears a familiar voice.

“Hermione?”

And there, in the doorway, Hannah Abbott – no, Longbottom now – tucked against his side stands… “Neville!” she drops the book and runs across the room to hug him, to hug them both.

“But what are you doing here?” she asks, pulling them down to the table where she’s been sitting with the children, “I thought you both lived up north! What brings you to London?”

“This,” Hannah waves her hand around, trying not to look too closely at Hermione’s waistline. How is it wherever she goes everyone is pregnant? “I, after the war, after that year with the Carrows…” she’s stammering and Hermione looks at Neville.

“Too many curses,” he says. “That’s what we think.”

“I keep… I can’t…,” Hannah’s trying to continue.

“We didn’t even realize this place existed until the article in the _Prophet_,” Neville continues. “I thought maybe… not to say a child is something you can just pick out, like a hat or…”

“I really want a child,” Hannah finishes, quietly. 

“This place doesn’t even have a _garden_,” Neville adds. “It’s all just packed dirt. How can people expect children to grow when they’re surrounded by walls?”

Hermione looks at Hannah, who’s trying not to cry. “You’re…,” she trails off. “Those monsters did this to you?”

The woman nods and then smiles, a smile that shakes a little bit, that carries maybe a little too much knowledge in it, but still a smile. “So… here we are.” She looks at Hermione, “Are you…?”

“Yes, but really just barely. How can you...?”

“I think I’ve lost so many that it’s like a sixth sense now. When?”

“About 2 months after the election.”

“Wow – you’ll be so busy!”

“And tired!” Hermione laughs. “But at least the nausea seems to be going away. I hope. I keep telling myself, anyway. It didn’t for Astoria, not the whole time. It’s not fair to want caramels _all the time_ and still feel sick.”

Neville shoves his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t realize you and Astoria were such good friends.”

Hermione crosses her arms and looks at him, eyes narrowed. “School’s been over for a while and I don’t see why I can’t be friends with people from different houses.”

“It’s not that,” he protests, “It’s… the whole thing with Harry.”

Hermione snorts at that; that she’s supposed to be so loyal to Harry when he certainly wasn’t to her is an ongoing irritation. “I don’t think anyone drugged Harry to get him into her bed, and she certainly wasn’t the first. She’s just the only one who decided she’d rather keep the baby. She was stupid, sure, bedding him with his reputation, but Harry walked away from me a long time ago so it’d be a bit ridiculous to say, ‘oh, well, Tory, sorry you got pregnant and your own mother won’t speak to you but I can’t be your friend now because of who the father is’.”

“Of course not, of course you wouldn’t do that,” Hannah looks at the children, who’ve scattered now that Hermione is talking to adults instead of reading, and then, realizing what Hermione had said, whispers, “He talked people into giving up their babies?”

“If by ‘giving up’ you mean terminating the pregnancies, then, yes.” Hermione says bluntly. “At least two others that I know about. Ginny could probably tell you more but she’s not talking to me, hasn’t for years. Not since Ron and I split.”

“I… Merlin, Hermione. I really had no idea,” Neville’s grimacing. “I knew you and Ron had broken it off – hard to miss that what with the coverage of his exploits and all – but I didn’t realize Ginny - Harry too? - had abandoned you too.” He pulls her into another hug. “If I’d known, I would have been down here – Hannah and I both would have - demanding they cut it out.”

“It’s okay,” Hermione shrugs even as she finds herself warmed by his immediate partisanship. “It’s over, has been for a while, and I can’t even pretend to be sad anymore. People change, people move on. Draco, his friends. Theo, Theo’s daughter. I have a whole new family with all of them and I know it’s a little weird when you think about how we all were in school but it’s been really great.” She flaps her hands a little and almost squeals, turning to Hannah. “Did you know Luna is dating _Blaise Zabini?”_

“No!” Hannah gasps, then asks, “Is it serious?”

“I think it might be, at least for him” Hermione smirks. “She’s got him totally wrapped around her finger. You’ll have to come over, if you’re in town long enough, have dinner. I’ll have them over, have Theo over. You can ask Theo about the mechanics of his adoption; I know Blaise did something at the Ministry to fast track his application. Probably something illegal, but – “

“The whole Ministry is corrupt,” Neville snorts. “I think I can live with a little underhanded moving of our application to the top of the pile given all the other things they’re up to.”

“Hermione,” Hannah puts her hand on the other woman’s arm, “That’s so nice of you. Do you think he’d…”

“Of course he would,” Hermione hugs the other woman, unwontedly angry that she has to endure a lifetime of fallout from the war – from the worthless, inept terrorists who’d bungled everything they touched - but not planning to be totally upfront that Blaise Zabini would walk in front of an oncoming train if his Lady told him to.

“Hermione,” Neville, looking at the two women, seems to have made some kind of decision. “I think you should be wary of Ron. He seems really angry at you, a lot more than seems reasonable. He blames you for the most random things, things you can’t possibly have anything to do with.”

Hermione laughs. “Ron? Really? Neville, you’re sweet but what would anyone have to worry about from Ron? I know he’s bitter I moved on, and with a man he hates, but the only person he’s a risk to is whatever unfortunate socialite he’s currently wooing.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry spots Luna by means of her hat, which she's somehow attached to her head upside down. A feather that he assumes was meant to poke into the air thrusts down over one ear and she has a blond girl by the hand. 

Harry recognizes the girl, mostly from the society photo spread of Narcissa Malfoy’s party but also from the orphanage exposé. Theo's daughter. Lady Nott. Just fabulous, Luna has brought bloody Lady Nott to their ice cream outing. Apparently, she and Theodore Nott are now friends, close enough friends that he'll trust the airheaded blonde with his brand new, shiny heir.

He sighs. Well, he supposes it'll take more than one outing to get the woman to tell him anything useful anyway.

"Harry," she calls out and he crosses the cobblestone street to join the pair of them. "This is my friend Æthel."

"It's nice to meet you Æthel," he holds his hand out and for a moment he sees something flash in her eyes that almost looks like contempt, and then that look’s gone and the little girl giggles and takes his hand.

"Auntie Luna promised me ice cream," she says, thrusting her hand back into Luna's. "I really like ice cream. We didn't get it at the orphanage and I was always ill anyway, but I used to pretend I had treats."

"I think we can manage that," Harry grins at her babbling, finding himself charmed by the girl. He remembers the part of his life when ice cream was an unattainable treat. "The ice cream, I mean."

"It's wonderful," she gushes on as Harry offers Luna his arm and they all make their way to a small table outside the shop. "My favorite is chocolate chip cookie dough; there's actual cookie dough in the ice cream. It's like two desserts at once!"

"How have you been," Harry's asking Luna under the girl's monologue, which continues on with a detailed comparison of different flavors of ice cream.

"Good," the woman replies. "Busy, of course. I'm helping Hermione with her campaign. You knew she was running, right?"

Harry smiles, a tight expression that takes some work. "Yes, I'd seen that."

"It's really Draco's idea, of course," Luna says, waving over a waitress. "What do you want Æthel?"

The child orders some sugary disaster; it occurs to Harry that he probably has far more in common with the child than her own adoptive father; both orphans, both denied treats. At least Æthel will be a little more prepared for Hogwarts than he was. At least she’ll have someone to sign permission slips, someone to send her letters. He admits to himself that, as much as he finds Theo Nott an unpleasant reminder of unpleasant days spent battling the man’s father and his cohorts, he’s done a good thing by this girl. Better to grow up with a father, even Nott, than without one.

"Is Hermione all right?" Harry asks after the waitress leaves. "I'm worried about her, marrying into that snakepit."

"She's been sick a lot lately," Æthel interrupts them. "Lord Nott says..."

"You call him Lord Nott?" Harry's surprised by that. It seems so formal and unpleasant.

"Of course," the little girl replies, looking confused. "What else would I call him?"

Harry shakes his head and Luna adds, "Theo and Draco are pushing her pretty hard right now, with the whole candidacy. On top of the pregnancy, it might be too much."

"So," Harry takes the cone the waitress has handed him and looks, amused, at the giant sundae the girl is digging into. "She's not the driving force here?" He hadn’t even realized she was pregnant. He’s sad at how much they’ve drifted apart.

"Lord Nott says Auntie 'Mione is a pawn but I'll be a queen," Æthel digs her spoon into the whipped cream and shoves a giant mound into her mouth.

"Silly," Luna says, stealing a cherry from the girl's sundae. "You're already a queen."

Harry steers the conversation to less fraught topics and they reminisce about school, Luna talks about her writing, he talks about shows he's gone to see and Ron's newest conquest, a woman who speaks almost no English. After he leaves and Æthel pushes licks her spoon the little girl says to Luna, "You aren't supposed to shake children's hands." 

Luna laughs, "I suspect you know more about the finer points of pureblood etiquette than either Harry or I."

Æthel tucks her hand into her Auntie Luna's as they leave. "Aunt Cissa was very insistent. And, well, Daddy says no one's ever charmed by rudeness."

"Lord Nott, you mean?" Luna asks, archly, and the girl giggles and ducks her head. She’d added that touch on her own.

. . . . . . . . . .

Daphne waits for Ginny to be outside the ice cream shop to make her move. Drunk, and at two in the afternoon. It’s sad, really. Daphne smirks to herself, then arranges her features into a cheerful blank smile before she makes eye contact with the little red-headed blood traitor. “Ginny!” she approaches the other woman and grabs her hand. “I just wanted to say I’m so sorry. This is just so awkward”

She’s been careful to pitch her tone so no one could hear her but the other woman. She doesn’t even get to go into _why _meeting up with her is awkward which is a bit of a shame, really. She’d had an entire apology planned out, one which would let her bring up Harry’s infidelity over and over again. It had taken her a long time to script it out and now, now that Ginny has already started screeching incoherently at her, she’s unlikely to ever get to use it.

No one appreciates my art, Daphne thinks to herself.

Still, she also prides herself on her improvisation skills so she adapts. “Are you okay?” The woman shoves at her but, her coordination somewhat impaired by her inebriated state, falls to the ground herself. “Someone help me,” Daphne yells out, looking around with feigned helplessness. “I think she’s having a seizure!” She kneels down by the other woman and adds, “Don’t worry! We’ll take care of you!”

Ginny lets loose a stream of invective that probably includes a lot of fairly choice phrases. Unfortunately, her articulation is not especially good and it’s not clear what she’s saying.

“I…” Daphne gets up and fades back into the growing crowd. “I don’t know what to do for her. Someone help her!” 

“She’s drunk,” a bystander snorts. “She’s not sick.”

“Disgusting,” a woman mutters. “At this time of day.”

“What do you expect?” a third adds. “It’s not like those Order people have anything useful to do. They just screw around and drink while decent, hardworking people don’t even have jobs half the time.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“You’re a fool,” Hermione doesn’t even raise her voice, just calmly spoons some sugar into her tea and begins to quietly stir it. “What do you think you’re going to do, Percy? Tell people not to vote for the war heroine because your little brother is bitter over their romantic break up? I wouldn’t recommend that tactic, especially since I can submit memories of him hitting me.”

Percy stiffens across the table.

“Oh, he neglected to mention that, did he?” Hermione smiles at the man. “Ron’s a bit more emotional than truthful; you know that. More, however, to my immediate interest, is that you’ve been embezzling money. You, personally, Percy. Your fingerprints, your _name_ is all over the incriminating documents. And that little investment in Russia? Tsk.” She waves her hand and summons a waitress. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” He doesn’t respond. “Get the man a tea and a scone, please. A scone for me as well, if it’s not too much trouble.” 

“My honor, Lady,” the woman bobs a tiny curtsey before walking away and Hermione looks back at Percy, who’s watched the little scene in horror. 

“Lady,” he whispers, “You aren’t going for Minister at all.”

“Of course I am,” she shakes her head. “I’ve formally announced my candidacy, after all, and, heavens, I’m practically running unopposed. The Order has clearly become nothing but opportunists, seduced by the sirens of fame and wealth. The economic travails of the common people combined with the moral scandals anyone who could possibly stop me mean I’ll be elected easily. Don’t be silly.” She raises her teacup and, taking a small sip, smiles at him over the rim.

“Why are you telling me all this?” He picks up the tea the waitress has slipped in front of him – never has he had service this quick and he’s quite sure it’s not because he’s the Deputy Minister.

“I knew you were the smart brother,” Hermione dimples at him and, even knowing what he’s figured out, he finds himself warmed by that praise. He finds himself wanting to please her, wanting to charm her. He’s not even sure why, she’s just mesmerizing; he wonders why Ron ever let this woman go. “I can choose,” she’s saying, “to quietly bury all the paperwork that ties you to the unfortunate Russia incident.” 

Percy sips from his cup, his hand shaking at the thought of his name all over that paperwork; all those memos. How could he have been so stupid? If he’s tried for embezzlement, he’ll be found guilty. She’s asking him…

“All you have to do is support me.”

He looks at her, trapped. “But,” he stumbles over the words, “You already said you’re unstoppable. No one can realistically beat you. You don’t need me. Why…”

“Oh Percy,” she frowns at him, and the sun goes behind the clouds. Why is this woman, this woman who’s very civilly threatening him, so compelling? Why does he want so badly to please her? “You can do better than that.” She turns and takes the plates with the scones from the waitress, smiling at the girl. She slides his across the table before adding, “Tell me why I want your support.”

“I’m…I’m the only Weasley of our generation who’s not been in the papers as a playboy or trouble maker.” He stumbles to articulate why she wants him as hers. “Well, me and Charlie but he’s not around and I’m the… I’m the politician. If you protect me I’ll remain the one unsullied member of one of the few remaining pureblood families. If I throw my support behind you publicly,” he pauses and finally puts it all together, “If I support you it will be that much easier to be... whatever it is you are going for after the election. Lady.” He whispers the last word. Nimue. Rumors that have stilled when he, pragmatic, unromantic Percy Weasley, has walked into rooms suddenly take on new import. 

“Well done,” she smiles again and he shivers as how pleased he is to have earned another smile. “Do we have a deal?”

“What do you want me to do,” he looks at her, this woman who his brother apparently abused, who is playing a game so much deeper than he’d feared, this woman who just bought his soul with, he tells himself, her simple blackmail. He certainly didn’t hand it over just to make her happy. “Try to stop Harry and Ron?”

“Oh, let them play,” she waves a hand. “No, I want your absolute fidelity, of course, and I will reward it, you know, and not just by keeping you out of prison. Declare yourself for me, publicly, and repudiate the Order and we’ll move on from there. I plan to simplify the Wizengamot in time, return it to more of an ancestral House of Lords. The Weasley family is old and pure and it wouldn’t do to deny them a seat. Perhaps you’d be a good candidate for that?” She raises an eyebrow and he shudders at the carrot she’s offering him. Betray your family, she’s saying, and I’ll keep you out of prison, give you power and prestige. “Well, think about it.” She sips from her tea again. “When you announce your support I’ll know you’ve accepted the arrangement.”

He nods. She has him and she knows it. There’s no point in pretending he won’t do exactly as she’s asked; he’s always turned towards power and away from his kin and maybe, maybe if he takes her up on this he’ll be able to protect them somewhat in the world she’s going to build with him or without him. Maybe. Maybe she’ll smile at him again. “May I go,” he asks, “the office and its eternal paperwork calls.”

“Of course,” she rises from her seat, he follows and, when she holds out her hand, he bows over it. As he walks away she sinks back into her seat and takes another sip from her tea.

“He agreed, I take it?” Draco slips into Percy’s vacated seat. 

“Of course he did,” she grins at her partner. “Was there any risk at all?”

“The bit where he asked your permission to leave was a nice touch.” Draco sips Percy’s tea and grimaces at the amount of sugar the man had added.

“He’s a bit more attuned to power than the rest of his family.”

“He’ll suit, then?”

“Oh yes,” Hermione sighs with pleasure, “he’s barely even wriggling on the line and watching the rest of them as they realize his betrayal will be a sweet, sweet entertainment. The game is too dull right now. All the pieces are in place and there’s really nothing to do until after the actual election.”

“Well,” Draco slides his foot under the café table to touch hers. “It wouldn’t do for you to be bored. Now that you feel better perhaps I can keep you entertained?”

She stands and he quickly rises to take her hand. “Take me home,” she murmurs, “and we can discuss in more intimate detail how you plan to alleviate my boredom.”

. . . . . . . . .

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs as she joins him on their bed, the slightly increasing curve of her abdomen highlighted by the light hitting the black silk of her little slip of a nothing.

“Mmm,” she slips her hand into his, sits up against his side. “Tell me.”

He laughs and tugs her until she’s straddling him, grinding into him in some really lovely ways. “Your little coup has kept you – has kept both of us – so busy I haven’t had a chance to just adore you lately. I miss it. Who’d have thought I’d ever miss your company, even when we started this little adventure.”

“I miss you too,” she confesses, drawing little circles on his chest with her fingers. “Almost everyone else has to be manipulated and played in some way. It’s exhausting; you’re the only one I really trust.”

He savors that, but, “Not even Theo?” he asks.

“Well,” she shrugs, “Theo, yes. But it’s not the same.”

He wants to ask why, to push her to express her affection; ever since the night, months and months ago, that she’d just cracked open his brain and laid his own feelings out in front of her like a banquet he’d wanted – waited for – her to tell him she felt the same way. He’s afraid, though, of what she’ll say if he pushes her, that it won’t be what he wants to hear, so he settles for ‘I miss you’ and ‘I trust you’ and holds onto those tightly.

She’s studying him now, even as she starts to undo his buttons. “You know I adore you too, right?”

“Am I still your favorite tool?” he traces his fingers across her belly, feeling the subtle swell of his child growing there. 

“I don’t think so,” she quirks her lips up in a smile as he looks at her, momentarily stricken. “Partner, maybe.” She pauses, “Draco – “

He looks up at her, takes her hand and starts to kiss each finger until she leans down and whispers into his ear something he’d simply given up on hearing and he wraps his arms around her and flips her over so she’s beneath him. “Really?” he asks, “really and truly?”

“Always and forever,” she whispers. 

“Why?” he asks, staring at her, begging for confirmation.

She reaches up and draws her hand across the sharp angles of his face, brushes her fingers through the hair that’s handing down into his eyes, that veils his view of her. “I just do,” she says softly. “I woke up one day and looked at you and realized I didn’t care, anymore, what had happened when we were children. That you had become essential and more - precious, wonderful. That I was happy you were the father of this baby, and not just because of power and dynasties and blood but because it was you. You said to me, once, you wanted to be more guile; are you so disbelieving that you are?”

“I just never thought that you would – “

“I do,” she pushes herself up and brushes her lips across his. “Why don’t you let me show you how very much I do?” 

“We won’t hurt the baby, right?” Even as he asks he’s slipping his hand under the fabric and listening to the quick, gasping, mewling sounds she makes in response to his touch.

“No.” It’s a quick reassurance between the whimpers he’s already wringing from her and he stops long enough to say, very seriously, “Because if anyone hurt the baby I’d kill them.”

“No,” Hermione corrects him. “We’d keep them alive for years until they didn’t even have enough hope left to beg for death.”

Draco groans against her and starts to pull off his own clothes. “Fierce, evil woman. How is it you ever fought for the light?”

“Because the last time the dark side wanted to kill me?”

“Can’t,” he mutters as he tosses his shirt to the floor, “fault your logic on that one.” When he’s stripped down and is leaning, his weight on his knees and hands as he hovers over her, she says it again and he looks at her and whispers, the words caught in his throat, “And I you.”

“I know,” she says, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of Hermione’s quoted speech in the paper was adapted from Hilary Clinton’s 2008 run for US President. In the orphanage, Hermione is reading from The Secret Garden.
> 
> The limerick is courtesy of Terrence Rogue


	23. Chapter 23

Astoria bites her lip as she tries to get the baby to latch on. Her perfect, pureblood grooming has gone the way of sleepless nights; she’s pulled her hair back into a sloppy ponytail and there’s some kind of stain on her shoulder. “Honestly,” she mutters, “I know you’re hungry, just eat already.”

“Can I help at all,” Hermione looks on with no idea at all what to do. She makes a mental note to hire a nanny. An experienced nanny.

“No, the little terror’s just being stubborn She likes the other side better but, Merlin, I’m rock hard and if she doesn’t drink from this one I’m going to have to pump.” Astoria does something that seems to involve shoving her breast into her baby’s face and wiggling and then, suddenly, Alicia makes what sounds like a happy gulp and settles in to nurse. “Look, I wanted to ask you, and you can feel free to say no, but - ” she wipes her free hand over her face before tucking it back under Alicia. “Would you be a bridesmaid? Greg and I set a date – well, Draco set a date as apparently our wedding is part of his grand propaganda plan – and it’s about two months before the election and I know you’ll be showing by then and maybe you don’t want – “

“I’d love to,” Hermione hands a glass of water to Astoria. She remembers from reading her baby books that nursing mothers should be offered water. “I’m honored, really.”

. . . . . . . . .

“How straightforward taking over the world is when you have trust in your team,” Hermione raises her glass to the assembled group. 

They’ve all gathered in her old flat; the almost total lack of furniture makes it perfect for parties and the official start of her campaign is an excellent reason to have such. Unlike the political ordeal that Narcissa’s gathering had been, this was limited to people in her inner circle and it’s already starting to degenerate into a bacchanal. Marcus Flint, newly joined, seems out of place, not sure how to behave. Luna leans up against the wall, a half-done knitted scarf at her feet; Blaise’s hands are on either side of her head and he appears busy exploring her mouth in some detail. Greg hovers around Astoria; with the baby left at Narcissa’s in the care of the Malfoy matriarch – or more likely her staff – it’s the first time they’ve been out as a couple without parenting duties weighing them down.

Pansy, holding a glass of champagne that is clearly not her first, toasts Hermione back. “How wonderful working for someone who believes in duty, fealty and kin, someone who is true to her kind.”

“Our kind,” Theo murmurs. “Our kin.” He’s pulled a bowl of snacks next to him and is sitting against the wall rolling another joint.

“Our kind,” Pansy agrees, taking another drink. “The only kind that matters.”

Draco nuzzles Hermione. “It’s a bad night to be confined to sparkling water, isn’t it?”

“It really is,” she mutters, settling down into her big armchair. Draco settles on the floor at her feet and she starts to idly run her fingers through his hair, twining the platinum strands around and around. He leans against her, looking like nothing so much as a beloved pet. You’d never know to watch them how viciously he protects her interests, how active he is behind the scenes of their little revolution, recruiting lower level supporters, tracking her popularity.

She’s become very, very popular indeed. His plans to hold her up as the single virtuous member of the Order have been successful; her resignation from the Ministry in outrage over the orphanage scandal, running in tandem with photos of her and Æthel shopping together and having lunch like the sweetest little family you could hope for, have cemented her as the beautiful, honorable face of the young conservative movement. Values, people murmur when they look at her. She has our values. 

He’s enjoyed the public debate that hovers right below the surface: is she a pureblood? It amuses him to hear people who’d never consider speaking to – much less supporting politically – a muggle-born announce in self-righteous tones that her birth hardly matters, what matters is what she stands for.

She stands for her own personal power, you fools, he wants to say. For the power of our son. For the power of _my_ son.

The whispers that she’s Nimue come again, here to sanctify a new dynasty, that she’s ancient magic walking again among them, well, he loves those. His name only lends credence to that rumor. She _married_ a dragon this time, people murmur. He’s heard a few crass jokes about how last time the Lady gave the pendragon a sword and this time he gives her his sword every night. He’s shared those with Theo – who snorted and muttered, ‘whatever works to get them fighting for us’ - but _not _with Hermione; pregnancy makes her cranky and he’d rather not have turn on him, or, worse, cut him off, in a fit of pique.

Astoria pulls a chair from the table over and joins them, interrupting his smug thoughts. “You and me both with the sparkling water, Lady. I haven’t had a drink is so long.” She waves Greg away and the man settles next to Theo, leaving the two women, forced to abstain, to their own company.

“This,” Marcus looks around as Daphne hands him a glass, “this is not what I expected.”

“Oh,” Draco drawls from the floor, “usually it’s strategy sessions and looking over economic reports. Don’t get used to this.”

“It’s not just that,” he looks around, “this is very… I know everyone. I’d have expected more of, ummm, your friends, Lady. Err… begging your pardon.”

Hermione looks sour and points to Luna, whose shirt is now halfway off. “Meet Luna. I think she’s the token eccentric of this generation as well as our token DA member.” Luna pulls one hand out of Blaise’s pants and waves in their direction without otherwise halting what seems to be her slow progression to full nudity.

“Get a room,” Theo mutters. “Please, dear gods above us all, someone make them get a room.”

“Most of my school friends are, I’m afraid, on the other side of this particular revolution.” Hermione shrugs. “It’s peculiar, I know, but they seem to be resistant to the idea of giving me absolute power.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Greg snorts, holding his hand out towards Theo. “They pretty much did everything you told them in school. Why would this be any different.”

“They’re weak and they delude themselves,” Draco leans his head back against Hermione’s leg, almost purring, “with tawdry ideas about democracy. They’ve prostituted their own ideals for luxuries and leisure and for our land and they tell themselves that because people aren’t cowering from a psychopath those people have good lives, free lives they owe to the Order, so they deserve all their goodies.”

“Hermione,” Theo is almost begging now, “make them stop,” and she calls out, “Luna, you guys are welcome to use my old bedroom.”

“But I like making Theo uncomfortable,” she responds, pulling her mouth off Blaise for a moment. “It’s amusing.”

“I assure you, I’ll be just as uncomfortable picturing what you’ll be doing behind closed doors.” He makes a face as he eats another pretzel, then another, before he finally starts throwing them at Blaise who turns to glare at the lanky brunette before tugging the girl back into Hermione’s room.

“Fine,” the man mutters as they slip away, “but I don’t know when you became so uptight.”

“Of course,” Draco continues, as if he hadn’t just stopped to admire Luna, as if Hermione hadn’t kicked him when she saw his glance, “it’s not like we don’t delude ourselves as well. The days of pureblood domination are numbered.”

“What do you mean?” Pansy glares at him.

“Do the genetic math, Pans. We’re going to have to start marrying half-bloods because there just aren’t enough people to go around. I mean, unless you _want_ to marry your cousin.”

“Doesn’t mean the old families have to lose their sway,” she snarls, her fingers curled like claws around the stem of her champagne flute.

“And they won’t,” Hermione says. “Go join Theo and try to relax, Pansy; it’s a party. We’ve talked about this. We’re going to start by restoring the estates then reconfiguring the Wizengamot to be one representative per family, one carefully selected representative. You could marry a bloody muggle and your family would still have a seat. You’re one of mine, and I’ll take care of what is mine.”

“I’d sooner die a spinster than marry a filthy muggle-born,” Pansy hisses at Theo as he hands her the joint, an amused glint shining in his eyes.

“Who do you plan to have take the Weasley seat,” Daphne asks Hermione with a sly smile, wrapping an arm around the still tense Marcus.

Hermione smiles at her. “You can safely assume it won’t be Ron,” and the woman snickers as Marcus looks from one to the other, trying to decode all the undercurrents. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry looks at the letter from Astoria Greengrass’ solicitor. She wants him to waive all parental rights to their child so _Greg Goyle_ can adopt her. Greg-fucking-Goyle, a man who, by all rights, should hate the girl for having one muggle-born grandparent, a man who had _liked_ doing unforgivable curses, a stupid, awful man who’d been kept from becoming evil by his own incompetence rather than by any strength of character. 

She stands up, ruins his political career - and maybe his marriage - with his daughter and then wants to take the girl away from him and give her to _Goyle_.

Oh, hell no. Bloody-fucking-to-the-hell no.

His mind has been spinning since he met Æthel, since he was reminded what it meant to be orphaned; he didn’t know his own parents as more than graves and stories and ghosts and he’ll be damned before he lets his own daughter grow up not knowing him.

He knows Alicia’s very existence infuriates Ginny, knows what he’s about to do will make her angrier than he’s ever seen her. Still, he takes a quill and starts writing a response to the solicitor, telling the man where he can shove his request to waive parental rights. Telling the man he expected a visitation schedule on his desk. Telling the man he’ll never give up his daughter.

. . . . . . . . .

“You’re doing _what_?” Ginny narrows her eyes as she stands, balancing herself against the edge of the table. 

“How much have you had today,” Harry asks.

“Don’t avoid my question,” she snaps. “Who cares how much I drink, anyway? I’m an adult, I can do what I please.” She swipes at her face. “You certainly did.”

“Ginny – “

“You cannot bring that whore’s daughter into my house. Cannot.”

“She’s also _my _daughter,” Harry says, trying to stay calm, “and I don’t want to just abandon her.”

“Oh, well, aren’t you just father of the year.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry,” he hissed. “I’ve apologized, I’ve groveled. I’ve promised to never, never let it happen again. But none of that changes that Alicia exists and that she’s mine and I’m not going to let her think I didn’t care about her.”

“She’s got her mother and that monster her mother is marrying, and Hermione and _her_ monster of a husband, and blood bedamned Theodore Nott. She has an entire generation of snakes standing around her. She does not need _you_ to care about her!_”_

“But,” Harry tried again, “I’m the only one of all those people who is her father. Ginny…”

“Sometimes I wonder if you ever loved me!”

He looks at her, aghast. “Of course I did. I do, Gin,” he pleads with her, “you are the most important thing in my life but…”

“Then do _not _ make me see regular evidence of your fucking in my house.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Oh, now he cares about fair,” she throws her hands up. “Let me tell you about fair. _Fair_ is not publicly humiliating your wife when your little indiscretions come home to roost.”

“That doesn’t really make sense. Indiscretions don’t roost, chickens do.” Harry runs his hand through his hair and tries to figure out how much she’d had to drink already. The bottle on the table is mostly full but there’s no way to be sure she hadn’t finished off a different bottle first. Where did she get all this scotch, anyway?

“Fuck you.”

“Ginny, I love you, I’ve loved you since we were kids, but she’s just a little girl. She’s my daughter, my child. I’m sorry I had an affair, I am, I really, really am, but I don’t want Alicia to suffer because I screwed up.”

“But it’s okay to make me suffer?” Ginny sinks back down into her seat and Harry watches, feeling helpless, as she pours herself another drink.

“No! I don’t want either of you to suffer but, Merlin Ginny, she’s a child. I grew up without my parents; you can’t ask me to make her do the same thing when I’m right here.”

“She has parents. She has Astoria and Goyle. She doesn’t need you.”

“How can you sit there and say that any child doesn’t need her father?” He pauses as she takes a drink. “Please stop drinking so much. I’m really worried about you. Ginny, you’re – “

“I’m angry. Angry is what I am,” she slams the drink down. 

“You’re also drunk.”

“Well,” she stands up taking her glass in one hand, “I’m about to go be drunk and angry in another room. If you bring that girl into our home, I’ll be leaving. Time to make a choice, Harry.” She walks out with careful control. Only when she’s out of sight does he hear her scream of rage and the crash of a glass hitting the wall.

His fingers twitch as he picks up the note she had her seat. It was his mail, a note from Astoria’s lawyer, agreeing to his request – his demand – for visitation.

Alicia Carys. His daughter. He hasn’t even met her and he’s already in love.

No one, not even Ginny, is going to keep him from being a father.

. . . . . . . . .

_Weasley Endorses Granger-Malfoy_

_In a surprise move, Percy Weasley, current Deputy Minister, has endorsed Hermione Granger-Malfoy’s candidacy for Minister of Magic._

_In his endorsement, Weasley praised her stance on economic reform and her long history of championing the rights of the oppressed while saying no one else “presents a vision for wizarding Britain.”_

_“The Order of the Phoenix have lost their way to the point they are now identified largely as playboys and opportunists,” he said. “We need a Minister who sees public service as a higher calling than personal ambition and who has a greater goal than self-aggrandizement.”_

Ron stops reading and looks across the room at Percy, who’s reading a book on the history of the Wizengamot. 

“Traitor,” he hisses and Percy glances up. “You’re endorsing her. ‘A greater goal than self-aggra-whatever’? Would it be possible for you to _ever _put your family ahead of your ambition you bloody, worthless prat?”

“She’s going to win,” Percy says stiffly, “and I have no intention of going down with the Order ship. Maybe if Harry’d been able to keep his pants zipped he’d be a viable candidate but he didn’t and he’s not. And you? Remember when I asked if you’d done anything to make her go after you? You neglected to tell me you had been _hitting_ her!”

“It was just once,” Ron snaps, “and she…”

“You’d really better not be planning on finishing that sentence. You screwed the family over with that, you made us all think she was to blame for your break up and everyone walked away from her, and now, well, here we are. I’m trying to salvage something – anything – and you decide to get self-righteous? You?! She’s got every old school pureblood in the country lining up behind her _and_ the ordinary people – the working classes? – they think she’s some kind of savior. You can’t beat her.” He puts his face in his hands, still trying to come to terms with how he doesn’t even _want_ to beat her, and then looks up. “This isn’t an evil wizard you can defeat on the battlefield, Ron. This is politics, and, yeah, she’s playing dirty but, listen to my words very carefully here, you’ve already lost.”

“The election isn’t until…”

“Shut up,” Percy is almost stewing in his frustration. “You’ve lost, and if you don’t see that I can’t help you.” 

“Your endorsement didn’t help,” Ron mutters.

“She doesn’t need me to win the election,” Percy says. “You’re the chess player, Ron. Try to figure it out before you get sacrificed.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Hermione!” Astoria bursts into their flat looking almost hysterical. Draco puts down his pen and looks up from the desk and Hermione stands up from the couch.

“What is it?”

“Lady,” Astoria drops to her knees and Hermione flicks a glance at Draco. The young mother has her face in her hands and is holding up a letter. “He’s fighting for partial custody.”

Hermione tweaks the paper out of the woman’s hands and skims it, her eyes hardening. Draco walks over and holds out his hand, quickly reading the text when she hands the note over. He looks at the leader of their little revolution, the former best friend of the man behind this letter and waits for her response. Astoria has crumpled, a supplicant, at their feet.

“Where’s Alicia?” Hermione asks.

“With Greg,” Astoria chokes out. Then adds, nearly spitting, “With her father. Her _real_ father.”

“I can’t do anything until after the election,” Hermione’s saying and Astoria sags a little lower, “but I promise you, he won’t take your daughter. It’s only four months. Have your solicitor play delaying games as long as you can and once I’m in power I can guarantee any trial will be found in your favor. Harry won’t be getting so much as visitation.”

Astoria grabs Hermione’s hand and kisses it. “Lady,” she whispers. 

“Go home,” Hermione pulls the woman up. “Go home and be with your daughter.”

After Astoria has left, wiping at her tears and whispering her gratitude, Draco pulls Hermione into a hug. “I said once you use your favorites hard, love, but you do take care of them too.”

“He just won’t leave it alone, will he,” she mutters into his chest.

“I did tell you,” Draco says with a sigh. “He’s never going to do what you want. I wish you’d let me…”

“No,” she stops him. “I gave you Ron. Be content with that.”

Draco holds her against him and wonders what’s finally going to be the thing that pushes her to remove Harry Potter from the board permanently. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both “How straightforward taking over the world is when you have trust in your team” and “How wonderful working for someone who believes in duty, fealty and kin, someone who is true to her kind” are paraphrases of lyrics from the musical Chess


	24. Chapter 24

When Harry walks into the shop he's not expecting to learn something, certainly not something that will infuriate him and, will in the end, be his undoing, but that's exactly what happens. 

"She's not going to let him have...." It's Daphne's voice that catches his ear, so much like Astoria's that for a moment he jerks his head, expecting to see the woman. By the time his brain has processed that the speaker is the big sister - the one he'd always considered more abrasive - she's moved away, out of his sight. He would have ignored her but what he hears next catches his attention.

"No." This voice belongs to Pansy Parkinson, a woman who time has not, in his opinion, improved, "Hermione'd never let that happen. Not after she...." The woman trails off but Harry steps into the shadows and begins to listen to as much of their conversation as he can.

"I felt so bad for her when he decided to fight for custody," Daphne is saying. "Who would have expected that?"

"Greg's fucking livid," Pansy's agreeing. "He took care of her through that whole pregnancy, gets up with the baby, hell, he bloody well caught the girl when she was born and now jackass scarhead thinks that just because his penis was involved he gets to play daddy."

"It'll never happen." Daphne sounds confident, far too confident for Harry's liking. "Draco told me they've promised her that as soon as the election happens they'll make sure the hearing goes in her favor. It’s just three more months; all she has to do is stall until then."

A pair of middle-aged women talking about pedicures and whether it's worth it to go to a muggle salon walk by and Harry misses the next bit of their conversation, though he does learn more about cuticles than he'd ever wanted to know. He makes a quick mental note to get Ginny a gift certificate to a spa; maybe that will make her happy, start her at least thinking about talking to him again. She'd thrown the flowers he’d brought her at his head, vase and all. 

When he can hear Pansy and Daphne again they're laughing about some party they'd gone to and just as he's thinking he's heard all the useful information he's going to - and it was plenty enraging so he doesn't really need more - he hears, "I never would have pegged Hermione Granger as the one to restore pureblood privileges."

Restore what? Harry stares through the shelves at the two women, as if he could somehow understand more by seeing them as they spoke. Hermione's planning to do what? But she's muggle-born, he thinks to himself. What the hell is going on?

"I thought it was Granger-Malfoy."

He hears a snort from Daphne. "Don't tell Draco that. She’s told him she'll be Lady Malfoy after the election but until then it's hyphenation or just plain Granger."

"I gave her the list of estates to take care of," Pansy's continuing. "She's promised me she'll get them all done in the order I listed as soon as she’s in power."

"Put yours first, didn't you?"

"Of course. Did you take me for some kind of noble fool?"

A laugh. "Who's second?"

"Theo, of course. Then your family."

"Inner circle first?" Daphne Greengrass sounds smug and pleased and entitled all at once and Harry feels his palm itch to slap the woman and he wonders what the hell she means by ‘inner circle’.

"Of course, Lady Greengrass." There’s another grating laugh from the loathsome Pansy. "Rank hath its privileges." 

"However this all came about," Daphne is saying, "her and Draco and their assorted plans, I'm never, ever going to be sorry I knelt to her, not if she can undo all the Order's thievery. The whole mess with the Dark Lord - our parents were nuts. He was nuts, a complete psychopath. But the Lady? She’s bloody brilliant; I wouldn't even care if she turned out to be a filthy mudblood after all."

"I don't think I'd go that far," Pansy snorts. "But that's... you know Draco wouldn't even lower himself to touch her if she weren't actually a Nott from the wrong side of the sheets. She may be an orphan bastard, but... can you imagine Draco starting his bloody dynasty with a muggle-born? The idea is laughable."

Harry, standing there in the shadows eavesdropping, is flabbergasted. Pansy Parkinson truly believes Hermione is a... now that's what's laughable. But, laughable or not, starting a dynasty? With Malfoy? This doesn't sound like Hermione's running for Minister, or not just. He'd not really taken Luna's claim that Hermione was only a pawn that seriously but maybe she was right. Maybe Draco is using her, somehow, to take her position as Minister and use it as a springboard for this baby she's apparently going to have. Hermione's certainly popular enough to redeem even the blasted Malfoys. Her child, her and Malfoy's child, could... could do anything. And Daphne Greengrass knelt to her? The Lady? What is that all about?

"After you, Lady Parkinson," Daphne says, giggling at the title, and the two of them have left the shop and he's left standing in the shadows, his mind racing. He has to find Ron. They have to figure this out.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Æthel got her Hogwarts letter,” Hermione says, holding her hand up against Draco’s skin. She can never quite believe how pale he is, how even her own skin looks dark when laid against his. 

“She’s officially eleven, huh?” Draco’s watching her admire him, a smirk dancing across his face.

“She is. We should have a party.”

“She just had a party.”

“No, a real little girl’s party, with balloons and cake and… and we should do it at the orphanage. Share it with all the other children. Have goodie bags for all of them. Maybe get that photographer to do a spread?”

Draco looks at her fondly, listening to her turn a simple party into first a generous way to share with her little orphans and then into a propaganda opportunity. “My clever wife,” he says, tracing his fingers over the ever-increasing bump of their child.

“I worry about what will happen when she gets to Hogwarts,” Hermione’s confessing.

He takes her hand and starts to slowly kiss each finger. “She’ll be sorted into a house, she’ll be judged the same way Theo and I were, she’ll negotiate alliances and make some mistakes. Some self-righteous Gryffindors will look down on her because they won’t understand the political waters she has to navigate – “

She glares at him, albeit without any real heat. “Maybe she’ll get sorted into Gryffindor.”

He rolls his eyes. “Really? You think the heir to Nott and the Lady’s favorite niece will get put into…”

She sighs and settles her head down against his chest. “I just don’t want her to have to suffer because of me.”

“She might, a little, but she’ll do better than I did; she’s already learned some hard lessons about trust and deprivation that will keep her from rubbing her privilege into people’s faces. I was,” he grins down at her as he squeezes her fingers in his before letting go of her hand, “as you may recall, a total prat about that.”

“You still are, ferret boy. We’re just on the same side now.”

“True enough. Partners in infamy?”

“Certainly that would be Ron’s take on it.”

“When do I get to kill him, anyway?” He’s tracing his fingers around the curve of her breasts now, already swollen. He can’t get enough of how her body is changing as their child grows. “You did promise.”

“I was thinking maybe an anniversary present,” she pulls back from him again, just a little, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “We could use one of your fetches to leave his apparently dead body with a suicide note, let everyone mourn him, while we quietly relocate the real man to the basement of the manor. It would be a good way to test the magic behind the changeling program and you could play as long as you wanted to.”

“That,” he says, leaning down to kiss her even as she continues to fumble with his shirt, “would be a wonderful gift.”

“Well,” she smiles at him, “you’re hard to shop for. One has to get creative.” She gasps as he slips his fingers under her negligee and starts running the pad of his thumb back and forth across one nipple.

“Enough talk of vengeance, as much as I really do like you when you’re evil. Now, maybe, something good instead?” He smiles at her suggestively and she runs her tongue along her bottom lip.

“I could be persuaded,” she murmurs and he bends himself to the agreeable task of persuasion.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Ron’s worried about Hermione’s run for minister,” Molly hands the plate of scones around and narrows her eyes at Mundungus as he takes 3.

“Why?” Minerva takes a sip of her tea. “As we too frequently told her at school, she’s the brightest witch of her generation. I’m glad to see she’s gotten a little polish, gotten married, grown up a little. She’s young, of course, but I can’t see why she wouldn’t do an excellent job.”

“Well,” Molly hedges, “we all thought Harry…”

“Who has enough to do keeping his marriage to your daughter intact after his little fall from grace. I’m surprised at you, Molly. I’d think you’d want him to focus on patching things up with her.”

“Mums just upset because she bought into Ronniekins rubbish about ‘Mione,” George snorts, taking two of the scones. “These are the best.” Both older women look at him and he shrugs and elaborates, “I talked to Percy, you know, after he endorsed her. She left Ron because he hit her, that’s what she told Percy and apparently Ron confirmed it. It wasn’t because she was some kind of gold-digging tramp or whatever utter shite he told everyone at the time.”

“That can’t be right,” Molly shakes her head. “If he’d done anything like that, Harry would have…”

“Stuck with his girlfriend and the rest of his pseudo-family,” George cuts her off and Mundungus nods in agreement, scone crumbs clinging to his mouth. 

“I really don’t think you need to worry, Molly,” Minerva pats the woman on the hand. “She’ll be an excellent Minister. Whatever Ron’s worries are, well, it sounds like they’re most likely just borne out of the guilt he feels about their messy past. People most hate those whom they know they’ve wronged, you know.”

“And,” George adds, “You might as well get used to the idea of Minister Granger-Malfoy because I think the only person running against her, now that Harry’s out of the race, is some nutjob who thinks he’s Sir Gawain reborn.”

. . . . . . . . .

“Pansy, thank you for meeting me.” Hermione waves a waitress over, “just sparkling water for me. Wine?” she looks at the other woman who turns to the waitress and says, “House white, please.” 

“And cheese,” Hermione smiles at the waitress. “Lots of cheese.”

“Are you allowed to eat cheese?”

Hermione rolls her eyes and Pansy laughs. “I won’t tell Daphne if you won’t. Honestly, that woman and her obsession with pregnancy and all the things that could possibly go wrong. Astoria was fine, I’ll be fine.” The waitress has hesitated and Hermione repeats, “No, really, the cheese plate, please. If it’ll make you feel better to bring the crackers, go ahead but I’m eating the cheese. Lots and lots of cheese.”

“I want the crackers,” Pansy interjects. The waitress looks from one of them to the other and does the politest variant on ‘backing away slowly’ either woman has seen in a while.

“Do you think she’ll really bring us food?” Hermione asks plaintively. “I’m afraid we might have scared her.”

“If she doesn’t, you can storm the kitchen,” Pansy says with a shrug.

“So,” Hermione frowns, letting go, for a moment, her urge for cheese and pulling a pad of paper out of her bag, “I was hoping you could help with the reconfiguration of the Wizengamot.”

Pansy scootches her chair closer to the other woman and slides the paper over to her. Hermione’s written a neat list of the pureblood families in one column. A second column has names scrawled, crossed out, decorated with question marks; it’s a mess. 

“Have I missed any families, that’s the first thing,” Hermione’s looking at the list she’s created, reading it upside down even though she’s stared at it so long she’s easily got it memorized. 

Pansy runs her eyes down the list. “Some of these don’t exist anymore, like the Blacks or the Crabbes.” She looks up slyly. “Sirius Black left everything to Potter so I suppose _technically_ you could call – “

“Oh, hell no.” Hermione gives Pansy a look that would have intimidated most people but just makes Pansy laugh. “Totally aside from the minor problem that hardly a day passes that Draco doesn’t ask when he gets to…,” she pauses because they are, after all, in a public restaurant.

“Understood,” Pansy grins at her.

“Plus, he’s not exactly going to be willing to vote our way. We need a _few_ people who clearly don’t belong to us but he might be a bit much; he does still have a lot of sway, and he could pull people his way if we let him have any kind of significant public role. I was thinking Neville, whose parents remain untainted Order heroes – “

“It’s amazing how being insane and institutionalized has kept them out of trouble,” Pansy sees the waitress heading towards them and adds, “So Astoria has decided on green for her bridesmaids.”

“Subtle,” Hermione says, taking her water and thanking the waitress before she pops a piece of cheese into her mouth.

“You’ll have to go and be fitted – expect a note,” Pansy continues as the waitress walks away, then adds. “No, he’s a good choice. He’s pureblood _and_ Order _and _ a war hero _and _he’s been living out of the thick of politics doing his plant things.”

“And he’s not averse to a little influence peddling,” Hermione adds, “as per his adoption.”

Pansy nods, then turns her attention back to the list. “Well, since Saint Potter is out, you might have trouble finding a Black.”

“Andromeda?” 

“Ah, I’d forgotten about her what with the muggle marriage and all.” Pansy wrinkles her nose. “Isn’t she raising that werewolf kid?”

“I was thinking about Narcissa too, but we might need her to sit on the Malfoy seat.” Hermione picks up another generous hunk of cheese and starts to gnaw on it. 

“Not Draco?” Pansy is trying not to laugh as Hermione devours the parmesan and moves on to some kind of washed cheese. “Not caramels anymore?”

But Hermione shakes her head. “Caramels and cheese. And sometimes at the same time.” Picking up another piece of cheese she adds, “Draco’s too obvious what with him being the consort and all. He’ll have to settle for influencing me directly instead of having pseudo-legislative power.”

Pansy laughs openly at that then looks back at the list, considering the different options within each family. “I know it’ll piss my grandfather off, but maybe Grandma Eustacia instead? She’s savvier than you’d think under all those feathers and – “

Hermione nods. “That’s what I want you to do, Pansy. Get me a list of whom you think we should appoint. Add a couple of people like Neville to make it look genuine but otherwise stack it with people who’ll do what I ask.”

“I’m honored you’d trust me with this,” Pansy looks serious for a moment. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer Theo or Blaise or…”

“No, I think you’re the perfect person for this task.” Hermione sets her cheese down. “I know you’ve been mostly writing propaganda fluff instead of dealing with dark spells or economics but you’ve been deeply immersed in pureblood politics since birth. You’ll know when the obvious choice is the wrong one, and you don’t just naturally assume the patriarchs should get the seats.”

“Girl power?” Pansy arches an eyebrow.

“Why not? Families like the Greengrasses don’t even have any male heirs; unless you want to start bringing in halfbloods – “ Pansy makes a face “ - then you’re going to have to look to the girls. And I’m not sure Blaise is quite ready to make that mental leap.”

“True enough, that. Thank you for your trust, Lady.” It’s a brief moment of formality before Hermione, still not wholly comfortable with how quickly her people have embraced the medieval structures, shakes her head and says, “Green? Really? Does she plan to carry a bouquet of decorative grasses too?” and Pansy laughs again.

. . . . . . . . . .

"So...," the woman looks up from the paper and squints at her husband, "they borrowed the money that was supposed to buy food for the poor, invested it with muggles, and the muggles took it all?"

"Pretty much," the man mutters, stabbing his fork into his eggs.

"Well, I guess it's good they'll be out of power after the election."

"Problem is," the man says, "they'll still be all over the government with their corrupt little paws. That Lady is going to have a hell of a job cleaning house."

. . . . . . . . . .

The two men sit in the corner of the pub. Ron's already ripped down the limerick of the week; this edition of the poem had made some biologically impossible suggestions about what Order members did with Phoenixes. The waitress had glared at him when he pulled it down and he'd hissed, "I could have Shaklebolt shut you down," and she'd sullenly retreated to behind the bar where she and some other slattern hovered, watching the two of them when they weren't bringing out orders.

"I met with Luna and Lady Nott," Harry says after the waitress slams their pints down. She's clearly no fan of the two of them.

"She brought the orphan brat with her?"

"She did." Harry tips the glass back and takes a swig. "Kiddo dropped that her father - who she calls 'Lord Nott', by the way - "

"Charming," Ron snorts.

" - tells her 'Mione is a pawn."

"Really?" Ron looks interested. 

"Really." Harry glances up at the bar to find the waitresses both staring at them. Weird. "Luna said Draco and Theo were driving her hard, that she was tired. Kid said she'd been sick and Luna said she was expecting a baby so my guess is the kid's seeing her miserable because of pregnancy and thinking that's illness."

"She's having his baby?" Ron makes a face. "That's just gross."

"Tell me about it. Can you imagine him naked? All pale and pointy?"

"I'd actually rather have not had that image in my head. Thanks. Scarred for fucking life is what I am now." Ron takes another drink and mutters, "not enough beer in all the seas to wash that image from my brain."

"If the beer were in the sea you couldn't drink it."

Ron rolls his eyes. "Whatever. So, she's knocked up."

"It gets worse."

"It can get worse than sex with Malfoy?"

Harry nods. "Oh, it can. I overheard Pansy and the older Greengrass bitch - "

"Daphne?" Ron asks.

"That's the one. They were talking about how Malfoy's founding a bloody dynasty. Pansy thinks 'Mione's a pureblood. Totally, absolutely believes it."

"The woman has 'mudblood' carved in her arm. What the hell?"

"That's what I thought," Harry's nodding, "but she’s convinced Malfoy wouldn't touch her if she weren't 'pure'. Thinks Hermione's some kind of bastard Nott."

"It's because he walked her down the aisle," Ron says. "It's something a brother does if no father is around. The man did all but come out and take an ad in the paper that he considers her to be his half-sister."

"Well, apparently the two of them are in cohoots to pass 'Mione off as a pureblood, use her kid to start some kind of, well, new Malfoy dynasty. That's the word they used. And little miss Nott said her father had told her she'd be a queen. 'Aunt 'Mione is a pawn but I'll be a queen.’"

"They plan to cradle betroth," Ron breathes in horror. "Use Hermione to get the boy, engage the boy to Nott's daughter - no wonder he adopted a girl. I thought that was odd for such a traditional arse. Then Malfoy and Nott control the pair of them."

"How can they possibly know she'll have a boy?" Harry objects.

Ron snorts. "Malfoys always have boys. Maybe it's magic, maybe they only shoot Ys, who knows. But it's always boys, has been for generations."

"But what does it matter," Harry's shaking his head, still trying to put the pieces together. "I know Malfoy thinks he's a bloody aristocrat but the Minister controls Wizarding Britain, the Minister and the Wizengamot."

"And Hermione will be Minister in a few months' time," Ron taps his fingers on the table.

"Lady." Harry breathes out. "Those two called her 'Lady'."

"Well, technically I suppose Lady Malfoy is her title," Ron shrugs, not quite sure where Harry is going with that.

"Not 'The Lady' it's not. And Daphne mentioned kneeling to her."

"Fealty." Ron looks at Harry. "If she knelt to her she offered her fealty, as if she were some kind of medieval queen." He gets up and stalks over to the board, the same one he'd pulled the limerick off earlier. There. There in the corner is a copy of the article from the _Prophet_ on Nimue. He yanks it down too and returns to his table, gives it to Harry.

"She's going for queen. Or, more likely since Malfoy's obviously running the show, king-maker. Not sure how but…"

"And that baby is the king." Harry looked at Ron. "What do we do?"

"Stop them," Ron said grimly. "Whatever it takes. Because, I don't know about you, but I'm not interested in an absolute monarch, whether it's the bleeding Dark Lord or Draco Malfoy whispering into Hermione’s ear."

. . . . . . . . . .

“They were both in here,” the woman says, wiping down the glasses and sliding them, one at a time, back into their places above the bar. “The bastard ripped down things off our board like he owned the place. He bloody well threatened to have Shacklebolt shut us down.”

Blaise leans up against the bar and listens to her words but, also, to how incredibly angry she is. More and more the populace seems to just seethe whenever they come into contact with the Order and Ron helps that along. He blunders, he stumbles, he rubs his ill-gotten gains and power in people’s faces and then wonders when they don’t like him. It doesn’t surprise Blaise that Hermione left his man; what he wonders about is what she’d ever seen in him to begin with. Fine, they were friends in school, but he’d been friends with Pansy and you sure didn’t see him shagging _her_. Wanting to marry _her_. The idea makes him want to take a hot shower and have a stiff drink. 

Luna, now. He’d marry Luna in a heartbeat if she’d have him, even though he still thinks she might be completely nuts. He’s just decided he doesn’t care. Not, of course, that he’s asked her because she might say no and that would be too humiliating to bear.

He wonders what Hermione’s timeline is for getting rid of Ron. He assumes it’s after the election because Ron’s ability to antagonize everyone he meets is far too valuable a gift to kill off right now. Just by existing, he discredits the Order. Still, he hopes Draco will share when they finally eliminate the man. This is the fourth waitress he’s had to soothe this month and it’s getting really tiresome. Every member of the underground wants to tell him how rude Ron is, how sloppy. How they find him tucked away with whatever tramps he brings in doing unspeakable things. 

Blaise admits to himself that he rather admires the man’s ability to find an apparently endless stream of women who, despite his dwindling popularity, are still willing to suck him off in closets. And men’s bathrooms. And, if the woman at the last shop he’d stopped in was to be believed, the religious section of the bookstore; that was fairly ballsy, getting blown next to tracts on finding meaning in spirituality.

All he says is, “Potter too?”

“The Chosen One himself,” she mutters with a snort. “I don’t know what they were talking about, not in full, but I heard the Lady’s name and they were being damned secretive.”

Potter and Weasley, talking about Hermione. Blaise frowns. That can’t be good. “Thank you,” he says to her, “for bringing this to my attention. I appreciate it, and so will the Lady. Let me know if they come back.”

“I will,” she says, wiping down the counter with a vicious swipe of her rag. “The bastards.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

Harry reads the letter from that woman’s solicitor. That woman who has ruined his life and who is being difficult about the one thing he bloody well wants from her. Who is, apparently, delaying his attempts to see his daughter just like her fucking sister and that goddamned Pansy had said she would.

‘_Given the very public evidence of your wife’s alcoholism,’ _the letter reads, along with ‘_feel you cannot provide a wholesome environment’ _and _‘must refuse your request until you can provide proof Alicia Carys Goyle would be safe in your care.’_

Her last-fucking-name is _not_ Goyle, he thinks in a rage. Alicia Carys _Potter_ will be totally safe in his care. He’ll dump all of Ginny’s booze today. He’ll haul her to St. Mungo’s to dry out. _Fuck_ Astoria. Fuck her, fuck her, _fuck_ _her_. 

No one can keep him from this girl, from this daughter. No one.


	25. Chapter 25

Hermione has to admit Astoria's bridesmaid dress design is fiendishly clever. The dresses themselves are simple and manage, while being wholly modern, to evoke a feel of the past. "I used," the designer is saying, "twelfth-century formal gowns as my jumping-off point. I wanted to make people think about knights and ladies without actually having you all in costumes. That's a bit hokey in my opinion." She's fussing the fit on Daphne and Hermione watches her wondering how, exactly, this woman plans to accommodate her own ever-expanding girth. She may barely show when she’s dressed now but every day she seems to be a different shape. The pregnancy panel answers her question. "So you'll have this gathering that will drop over your abdomen; I'm leaving plenty of fabric and I'll make final adjustments to the fit the day of the wedding."

"That's a lot of work," Hermione murmurs as she adjusts the dress around herself.

The designer gives her a nearly scandalized look. "I'm dressing the future Minister and getting a full 3-page fashion editorial spread. It has to be perfect. " She pauses and then, as so many people do now, adds, "Lady."

"I haven't been elected yet," Hermione demurs and the designer scoffs as she pins up another pleat of the green silk. "Well, I haven't," she repeats and this time the other woman actually laughs.

"Give it a rest, Hermione," Daphne says, pulling her own gown over her head and handing it off to an assistant. "The only two people who could have realistically opposed you were Potter and Percy Weasley. Potter's out and Percy's endorsed you. You're our golden, watery, girl."

"Our very own Lady," the assistant adds as she hangs Daphne's dress on the rack. "And our very own princeling."

"I'd be honored," the designer adds with a coy smile, "if you'd let our firm give the little prince a christening gown."

"Talk to Narcissa Malfoy," Hermione's struggling to get the dress off and the assistant hurries over to help her ease it over her head. "She handles all of our formal entertaining."

"I'll do that," the woman dips in a small but unmistakable curtsey. Daphne grins at the expression on Hermione's face as she helps her back into her sleek black wrap dress; Hermione had actually gasped when she'd seen the price tag before Narcissa had snatched it out of her sight. It had seemed like an obscene amount of money to spend on a dress she would only be able to wear for a few months but arguing with Narcissa Malfoy, she’s learned, never went well, especially when it came to clothes.

Draco, Hermione thought, was the same way about shoes. Being four months pregnant was no excuse to wear flats in whatever delusional world he lived in. Daphne, with her pregnancy safety obsession, had turned out to be a valuable ally in the shoe department and she tucked Hermione's heels into her bag and pulled out a pair of ballet flats. "I won't tell if you don't," she grinned and Hermione huffed out a sigh of relief. 

"I knew I liked you. Want a seat on the Wizengamot?"

"Not my parents?" Daphne held open the door as they left the shop.

“Inner circle privileges,” Hermione smirked as they made their way towards an ice cream shop. “Are you letting me have ice cream?” 

“It’s pasteurized,” Daphne snorts, “so it’s fine. I wish you’d stop with the cheese though; I know you aren’t careful.” She pauses as they cross the street, then adds, “Are all the inner circle going to be…”

“No.” Hermione shakes her head. “Not Pansy. It’ll be her grandmother. I need my people to be able to hold two apparently contradictory ideas simultaneously and Pansy’s a bit, uh...”

“Rigid in her thinking?” Daphne nods. “What sort of ideas are you concerned about?”

Hermione eyes her as they both settle into seats and finally says, “I need people who can see me as Theo’s sister and also – “ she holds out her arm. Mudblood.

“Well,” Daphne orders a milkshake and then, as Hermione turns the menu back and forth in her hands trying to make a decision, says to the waitress, “Just make it two.” At Hermione’s look, she rolls her eyes. “Trust me. They’re good.” There’s a pause and then Daphne adds. “I like to think of myself as more of a pragmatist than an ideologue.”

“Ideologues do so rarely win,” Hermione murmurs to which Daphne says, “Exactly. I care far more about winning than about… other things.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

When she enters Blaise Zabini’s flat the first thing Hermione notices is Luna, spread-eagled on the floor and staring at the ceiling. She calls out a greeting but doesn’t move.

Hermione, used to Luna, steps over her and makes herself at home on the couch. “I wanted to stop by and thank you,” she says to Blaise, “for helping Neville and Hannah.”

Blaise laughs and hands her a mug of tea. “Decaffeinated – don’t worry,” he says, and then “It was my pleasure, Lady, and trivial enough to do. I thought one of your goals was getting all those kids placed.”

“It is,” she nods, “but I still appreciate your help.”

“My life is yours,” he says with a shrug. “Are Neville and Hannah going to join…”

She cuts him off. “I don’t think so. They’re good people and we, alas, are not. You might have noticed.”

“It’s true,” he shrugs again as he settles next to her on his couch. “I have a number of wonderful qualities, but I am an evil bastard.”

“Really?” Luna turns her head to look at them. “I thought your parents were married.”

“I was using the term in its colourful sense, not as an actual description of my legitimacy, or lack thereof.”

“Ah.” Luna pauses. “I don’t really think you’re evil either.”

“Good to know, love, but I think you might be biased.”

“No.” Luna props herself up on one elbow. “The whole question of what makes a person good, or evil, is quite an interesting one, don’t you think? Aristotle would argue that you can’t be a good person without power, in which case none of us are currently good. Can you be evil without power?” She lay back down and returned to staring at the ceiling. “I wonder if a state can be good or if virtue is restricted to individuals? And, in the same vein, can a state be evil?”

“I didn’t know you knew Aristotle,” Hermione sips from her tea.

“I had to read it in translation so I’m not sure it counts.” Luna closes her eyes. “My ancient Greek is pretty bad. Makes me feel dirty to read things in translation, though, like I’m being naughty somehow.”

Blaise quirks an eyebrow up, a look Hermione studiously ignores.

. . . . . . . . . .

“I’m,” Blaise pauses later that afternoon and studies Draco, “I don’t want to say ‘worried’. I’m not even sure I want to say ‘concerned’. Let’s call it ‘cautious.’” They’re back in Theo’s least favorite pub, that exclusive, hidden, seedy bastion of privilege and slovenliness. For all the filth and poor service it remains the best place to have a private conversation away from the women in their lives; it’s what men have used the place for for decades.

“Why are you telling me and not her?” Draco narrows his eyes and looks at his old friend. “She gets… peeved… when we keep things from her.”

“I know, but…” Blaise trails off then mutters, “It’s about Potter and Weasley.”

“Shit,” Draco rubbed his face with his hand; he could feel the pain starting right between his eyes. “And you know she won’t let me just bloody well kill them.” He signals the bartender for another drink. He can already tell he’s going to need one. 

“Third act fucking problems,” Blaise agreed. “They met up in a pub – managed to piss the waitress off but good – and had some secretive conversation about the Lady.”

“Did she get any details?” Draco has started to rub his temples. It’s never anything specific with those two, just a general sense of sulky unhappiness. They’ve been this way since he met them; he finds it considerably less appealing in the adults and it wasn’t like it had been all that appealing in the boys. Still, you can forgive quite a bit of someone destined to destroy a psychopath; a man who likes to sleep around gets cut a lot less slack. His sidekick still less.

“No,” Blaise shook his head in frustration. “I spend more time getting snippets of information Ron’s behavior than I’d like but nothing really useful. You would not believe how many conversations I’ve had with people disenchanted with him. I’m not sure there’s a woman in food service in all of wizarding London he hasn’t managed to antagonize; apparently no one ever told him that if you have women blowing you under your table you should leave the waitress a tip for looking the other way.”

Draco nearly chokes on his beer. “He has women doing _what_? And then he doesn’t _tip?_”

“I’ve got your photographer friend planning an expose of Order hedonism, to be run with black bars over the naughty bits and a warning that viewer discretion is advised, which should ensure it gets read by absolutely everyone. We have pictures of him all over London with tons of different girls; you could publish an entire porno mag of his exploits alone. I mean, it would be repetitive and no one would want to look at it because –

“Weasley.”

“Exactly. All ruddy and flushed.” Blaise tips his beer towards his mouth then adds, “Some of the women are hot though.”

“I didn’t need that image in my head; thank you so very much.” Draco can picture Weasley, ruddy and flushed as Blaise put it, belittling Hermione and feels his desire to kill the man drift back to the surface of his thoughts. Five more months until their anniversary and his promised present; he’s never been so eager for time to pass.

“Have another drink,” Blaise is saying. “Alcohol can sterilize almost anything.”

“Not enough alcohol in all the world to cleanse that damn spot, mate.”

“What do we do about them?” Blaise is serious again. “I don’t know what they’re up to but I’m sure it’s bad news. Probably inept and annoying bad news but still, we need to get them out of the way. For all that Potter is a fool, he’s still the ‘Chosen One’ and some people do still listen to what he has to say. If he came out against Hermione it could be bad. I don’t want to overreact or be paranoid but…”

“People have underestimated that man before.” Draco agrees, rubbing the bridge of his nose again. “But, fuck, I ask _all the time_ for permission to kill him. She’s never going to give it, not until it’s too late. For now, I don’t know, just track them both, see if you can figure out what they’re up to. Maybe she’ll give the go-ahead if it’s bad enough. I doubt it, but we can try.”

“Could we just take care of it? Use the ‘better to ask forgiveness than get permission’ method?” Blaise asks the question but they both know the answer.

“Not if we want to live,” Draco says grimly. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco Malfoy, heir to the house of Malfoy, technically Lord Malfoy, well-known throughout wizarding London as an arrogant, condescending prat, sprawls naked on his bed, his face inches from Hermione’s belly. “Can he hear me, do you think?” he asks.

“I have no idea,” Hermione’s propped up on one elbow watching him. The second trimester of pregnancy, she has decided, is glorious. After spending the first third of pregnancy alternating between nausea and a desire to eat every caramel that ever existed she’s glad the books turned out to be right; she’s ready to pounce on Draco at every possible opportunity. She feels _great. _ No wonder Molly had so many kids.

“Hi, baby,” Draco’s talking to her belly. “I can’t wait to meet you.”

Hermione has to hold her hand over her mouth to muffle the laughter. Of all the things she’d ever expected to happen in her life, Draco Malfoy babbling on like a besotted fool to what had once been her waistline wouldn’t have made a list of the top hundred. Hell, it wouldn’t have made the top _ten thousand_ but here he was. “Did you know your mother is brilliant? She’s the smartest witch I ever knew.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Hermione drawls, “I’d say you were trying to soften me up for something.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Draco flicks a quick glance at her face before returning to her abdomen. “She’s just jealous I’m reading this scintillating book to you instead of rubbing her feet but that’s what she gets for swapping out her shoes with Daphne. I believe, baby mine, when we left off, the caterpillar had indulged in an excess of gastronomical delights and felt unwell. So…,” he opens up his book and begins to read again.

Draco Malfoy reading muggle children’s books to their unborn child would also have never made any list of ‘things Hermione Granger expected to see happen in her lifetime.’ Fortunately, she thinks, I can adapt, and she lay back to enjoy the sound of his voice while gathering her strength for another go-round.

. . . . . . . . . .

Molly flips through the Prophet while she sips her morning tea. She’s supposed to meet Ginny for lunch; she’s worried about the girl’s drinking and has decided, against Arthur’s advice, to confront her about it. Time to settle down, have a baby of her own, keep Harry’s attention on her instead of his tramps and their offspring.

She turns the page. Oh look, there’s a sale on yarn. You can never have too much yarn, not if you’re a knitter. Wealth hasn’t ended the tyranny of the homemade jumper. All Weasleys can expect one every year at Christmas. Now she just makes them out of things like homespun alpaca instead of acrylic. 

She idly wonders as she flips another page whether she should use up her stash of acrylic making sweaters for all those orphans. They’d just had a board meeting the night before to try to come up with a coherent response to the revelations of the conditions. The group had agreed to do a fund-raising ball over Christmas this year and this time to really use the money to spruce the place up, make it look a little cheerier. Some paint, some books and they’ll schedule another walk-through of the place with a photographer and everyone will back off about the poor little Death-Eater orphans.

Another turn of the page finds her face to face with the society section. Nothing, thank Merlin, about Ron this time. He’s another one she needs to talk to. If what Percy said is true… but she’s sure Hermione either lied or Percy misunderstood. Still, he needs to stop with the playboy nonsense and find a girl he can actually respect and settle down. Molly squints at the main story. A children’s birthday party? How… quaint. Who would allow their child’s party to be photographed for the paper?

She starts to read the article and feels tension creep in behind her shoulder blades. 

‘_Lord Theodore Nott has continued his support of the Order of the Phoenix Memorial Orphanage, hosting his new daughter’s eleventh birthday at the institution. Lady Æthel Nott forewent presents at her own party, opting instead to give a goody bag to each resident. The children were also treated to a lavish spread of cake, ice cream and, this reporter has been assured, some healthy dining options. The young Lady Nott is clearly an example of the kind of consideration and generosity we’d like to see from all our leaders but so rarely do. Certainly, the Board of Directors of the orphanage could stand to learn from her example.’_

Maybe they should rethink the fund-raising ball, do something a little more hands-on. A toy drive so people can give the little monsters presents, maybe. Molly doesn’t personally feel it’s worth it to waste either time or money on the offspring of the people who’d tried to kill her family in two separate wars – the little brats should be grateful they’ve got a roof over their heads and food on their table - but being publicly scolded in the paper stings.

. . . . . . . . . .

Kingsley Shacklebolt has the papers spread out over his desk when Percy enters the room. It’s not a pretty article; Percy had read it at home and felt tremendous relief that his name had, indeed, been kept out of it. 

Shacklebolt has not been so fortunate.

The article, which had no obvious – or even subtle – connection to Hermione, laid out the details of their entire scheme. Percy had blanched when he’d read it; somehow it hadn’t seemed so bad when they were actually doing it but, reading about it, he realized how ill-advised, how downright idiotic, the entire scheme had been. When he’d first heard the idea - we’ll skim money from the muggle technology registration-permitting program, hide it in the orphanage budget, and then invest it internationally – it had seemed so clever. We’ll make so much more, Shacklebolt had told him. We can use the extra funds to increase the food aid budgets, use the extra funds to get extra things for those orphans and if some of the money goes missing, well, we’re already keeping double books, who will notice? Percy had never quite realized how the scheme implicated his parents: his father’s department, his mother’s charity. He’d never really thought about how vile it was to use a facility that was supposed to care for children to line his own pockets. He’d never thought about what happened if the investments failed.

They’d had such good intentions. Well, mostly good, anyway.

His father was named, though the article painted him as a dupe who had no idea what was going on under his own nose rather than as a villain. ‘_Arthur Weasley,’ _it read, ‘_apparently spends so much time playing with the muggle toys he’s supposed to be regulating he failed to notice the revenue shortfalls in his own department’s bookkeeping.’ _The paper’s take on his mother is less kind. ‘_Whether the Board of Directors were indifferent or hostile to the well being of the children in their care may prove irrelevant as the Winzengamot explores their legal culpability in more detail.”_

Still, it could be a lot worse.

It is worse for Shacklebolt. There have been other articles, other revelations. When Russia seized everything the _Prophet_ reported that; the reporter had even managed to dig up the connection to the food aid program. ‘_People to go hungrier due to illegal government investment program gone awry.’_ This, however, is the first time the paper has named names.

Not his name. Seeing how pale Shacklebolt looks Percy suddenly realizes how much he owes to Hermione. That could be him. 

“Well,” the man says, “They aren’t quite burning me in effigy yet but...”

“I’m sure it will blow over,” Percy says, not even convincing himself. “It’s a complex economic problem; most people will go look at the society pages instead.”

“Have you looked at the society pages?” Shacklebolt snorts.

“Of course not,” Percy says, somewhat insulted. His brother reads the society pages. Hell, his brother _is_ the society page. He reads the business section, the news section. He’s been known to steal a glance at the sports pages if no one is looking. But he has trouble mustering even the slightest interest in who went to what party wearing what and so never looks that part of the paper.

“You should,” the Minister tells him and shoves the paper across his desk. Percy looks at the pictures of the children’s party in some confusion until he reads the snippy little gossip accompanying them. He wonders whether Hermione had engineered the timing of the orphanage funding scandal reveal to coordinate with her niece’s party; if so, that’s fairly impressive. He wonders how much of the _Prophet_ she has in her pocket. She has at least one writer, certainly. 

He wonders if she’ll really get him a seat on the Wizengamot. Would he have to try his own mother for accounting improprieties? Surely he could recuse himself from that case. Surely she’d let him do that. Right?

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” he says again. “In a day or two people will have forgotten.”

He doesn’t believe it, though.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo holds the list in his hand and thinks he probably should have taken Pansy up on her offer to help. He’d just wanted to do it on his own, to have this moment. Æthel’s tired, and as much as she’s trying to hold it together he can tell she’s had enough and, damn it, there are photographers following them and they still have to get her a wand and a pet. Assuming she wants a pet.

“Do you want a pet, princess?”

She’s sitting on the edge of a water fountain, bags piled at her feet. She’s got books, and a cauldron, and potion supplies, and so many other supplies he can’t quite believe it. 

Did we have to buy our own supplies, Theo wonders. He hadn’t remembered that. The school list is really long and incredibly specific. It has to be _this _brand of quill; _that _brand of quill will be immediately confiscated. No Weasley products whatsoever. Get five of these and two of those and only locally sourced globworts will be accepted. He’d initially been irritated that Narcissa had taken care of all the clothes; now he’s grateful.

“What did Aunt ‘Mione have,” she asks, perking up a little. Pets are more fun than textbooks.

Theo desperately tries to remember what Hermione had had in school. He’d ignored her at the time, of course: wrong house, wrong blood, wrong friends. “As I recall,” he closes his eyes and tries to picture the awkward girl she’d been. She had had this… “Cat. She had a big, ugly cat. Orange, I think.”

“What did you have?” 

“My father felt pets were unnecessary,” Theo ruffles her hair. “Do _you_ want one?”

“I want a cat,” she says.

“A big, ugly, orange one?” he asks, trying to hide his amusement.

She frowns at him and he gives up and laughs. “You can have whatever you want, sweetheart. If we have to go to every pet shop in the city to find you your cat, we will.”

“I want a kitten. A black kitten.”

“Why black?”

She looks down at her bags and mutters something and he squats down so he can hear her over the sound of the fountain and the people walking by. “Because,” she says, still looking down, “I’m going to miss you and if the kitten has the same color hair you do it’ll seem like having you there a little bit.”

That’s the photo that ends up in the papers. They’ve been being followed most of the day, which has both been incredibly irritating and has given Theo a belated sense of sympathy for Harry Potter, but of all the shots people have taken the one that ends up published is Æthel caught up in a fierce hug as he pulls her to him. Hermione, he thinks, gave this girl to him. If it hadn’t been for her he’d never have ended up on the path that led him to this daughter of his heart. He’s never going to stop being grateful for that.

If anyone hurt Æthel he doesn’t know what he’d do. Sending her off to school, knowing she’s going to have to deal with all the politics of Hogwarts is bad enough. If someone actually hurt her he doubts he’d be able to control himself.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ron is the one who finds her, multiple bottles empty around her, lying on the floor, a list in front of her with names on it. Astoria Greengrass, next to which she’d written ‘baby’. Cho Chang, labeled ‘abortion’. Others he didn’t recognize, some also tagged ‘abortion’, some just the name.

He cleans up the vomit, hides the note. He doesn’t want anyone to see his baby sister that way when they come to get her body. It’s funny, he thinks later, how he doesn’t even cry. It’s funny, he’ll say to Harry later, as the two men sit and stare at one another, how he just felt numb. 

He wonders if he should blame Harry, thinks maybe he should, but he can’t. Harry seems so lost without her. For all that his friend, the hero of the world, had slept with women with alarming indifference to anything but his own immediate pleasure, he’d adored Ginny. He’d loved her madly, passionately. 

The war broke him, Ron thinks, and he tried to glue the pieces back together with sex. It didn’t work, of course, but he can’t really blame the man for trying. After all, I use the same adhesive, or try to, Ron thinks, when I work to keep myself from falling apart.

He blames Astoria. What had that fucking bitch been thinking, keeping the baby, demanding Harry recognize her, recognize the child? The rest of the women had known it was nothing, had known it meant nothing. Why had Astoria been different? Why did she think she was so special?

More, he blames Hermione. 

He’s not sure how Hermione had known about Astoria, what role she played in that, but when she went to that campaign event, when she’d flipped Harry off from the doorway, she might as well have declared war. 

And now his baby sister is dead; she’s drunk herself to death in the wake of her husband’s infidelities and it has to be someone’s fault.

He knows Harry thinks Malfoy’s the driving force behind Hermione’s run for Minister, behind whatever else she’s doing, but Harry’s always had some weird thing about Malfoy. He’s biased. Not, of course, that the man isn’t an utter, loathsome prat and Ron’s willing to believe the political stuff is all Malfoy, but this thing where Hermione seems to be targeting his family, that’s personal. 

No, he thinks, it’s Hermione’s fault. Maybe Astoria just got caught, just couldn’t abort the baby. But Hermione, she’s using this. She’s been _gloating_ about Harry’s fall from grace, about Ginny’s suffering.

It’s her fault. She hates him and she’s trying to take everything from him, everything from Harry.

Fine. The bitch – the ‘Lady’ - wants a war? He’ll give her a war. 


	26. Chapter 26

Astoria’s father manages to overcome his horror at his daughter’s very public shaming in order to give her away at her wedding; good girls simply don’t get pregnant out of wedlock, not in their circles. That Narcissa Malfoy had cornered his wife and pointed out that snubbing a close friend of the future Minister was, perhaps, unwise surely had nothing to do with his agreement to walk her down that aisle. Nothing at all. 

Mr. Greengrass – he was _not_ going to adopt this peculiar trend of using the old titles - also wasn’t a fan of Greg Goyle, which didn’t make this wedding any more palatable. The man might have rescued his daughter, giving her claim to respectability she surely didn’t deserve, but he had been nearly a Death Eater and was quite possibly one of the stupidest men he’d ever met. That his daughter appears to actually love the blighter is one of life’s mysteries and not one he intends to probe too deeply. 

What, he wonders, had possessed her to fall into bed with Harry Potter anyway? And why, even if she were going to be blind to decency, had she also decided to neglect common sense in the form of simple contraceptive charm? Honestly, it was as if she’d meant to get pregnant. Maybe she and that idiot Goyle do deserve one another, he muses.

Daphne, at least, remains unsullied and thus available for strategic matchmaking. When he’d last seen her she’d been sitting in the hotel suite the women had commandeered with some mouse of a stylist piling her hair into some thing with curls dangling about her face, the head of the pregnant Mrs. Malfoy tipped in towards her as they shared some confidence or other. A cynical man might have suspected the scene had been staged as a near-perfect photo op, and Mr. Greengrass is nothing if not cynical. When had his daughters become friends with Draco Malfoy’s mysteriously orphaned bride? He doesn’t exactly object – the woman is clearly a political powerhouse and a discreet conversation with the elder Mr. – excuse him, ‘Lord’ – Parkinson has placed him firmly on her side in the upcoming election. Not, admittedly, that there’s much choice. The young, apparently pure-blooded war heroine, wife to last remaining member of one of the oldest families in wizarding Britain versus some maniac who thinks he’s a knight of the round table.

It’s strange, he thinks, how no one else seems to be running. Even Percy Weasley has bowed out and endorsed the woman. 

He wonders if Theodore Nott might be interested in Daphne. Sure, the man’s a poof, but he’s close to that girl of Draco’s and, damn it, he’s missed out on the chance to get one daughter married off to someone powerful, someone useful. He doesn’t want to risk Daphne falling in love with some cretin too.

Now, though, he’s waiting to play his role in this little pageant, standing at the bar enjoying a drink while the girls get their hair done and the guests drift into seats. His wife’s done a bang-up job putting the event together; you’d never know she’d spent the last year alternating between dramatic sobs at her daughter’s ruined state and huffing how _dare_ Narcissa Malfoy move in and push her out of her daughter’s life, all the while refusing to talk to the girl. Women. He takes a swallow of the golden liquid in his glass and wishes, again, that the night, and with it, this farce of a wedding was already over.

. . . . . . . . .

Greg Goyle can’t quite believe he’s going to marry Astoria Greengrass. Tonight. He’s going to marry her _tonight_. Somewhere, upstairs in this behemoth of a hotel, she’s with Daphne and Hermione, getting dressed. She’s putting on a wedding dress so she can marry _him._

He’d watched Astoria for years at school, feeling at first a bit like a creeper, because she was younger than he was, and then like a fool, because there was no way the beautiful and clever girl would ever look twice at him. He was just Draco Malfoy’s sidekick, destined to be a soldier in an army no one had asked whether he wanted to join. He was no one special, no one impressive. Not like her.

Sometimes he feels like he’s so happy he’s going to die. This can’t be real. He has Astoria who, for some unknown reason, loves him; he has a daughter he adores; he has the trust of the Dark Lady, something he certainly doesn’t deserve after how he’d treated her when they were children. Life is really good, so much better than he’d ever expected it would be. Sometimes, he thinks, good things just happen. 

He knows Astoria’s father despises him. Hell, the man mostly despises her too; he’s here because Narcissa Malfoy threatened him with something, who knows what, and so he’s shown up, dressed properly, and is quietly getting pissed at the bar. 

Greg hopes the man doesn’t get so drunk he ruins Astoria’s night. He’s watching the man uneasily when Draco comes up behind him. “I’m already on it,” the blond man murmurs. “If he upset Astoria tonight, Hermione would kill him and that might not play well in the press so I’ve cast a renewing sobriety charm on him. He won’t be able to get drunk no matter how hard he tries.” Draco evaluates the older man again. “And he’s certainly trying.”

“He hates me,” Greg says, dully. 

“So what?” Draco shrugs. “Hermione’s already decided Daphne’s going to take the Greengrass seat on the Wizengamot, and you’re the only choice for the Goyles. He’s out of power, out of touch. It’s our turn now, Greg.”

Greg looks at his friend; since they were children Draco has been a constant in his life and he trusts the other man’s judgment. Now he’s smirking at Mr. Greengrass, contempt for the older man evident in every line of his perfect posture. “Wanna rule the world with me, Greg?” he murmurs. “I’ve got a seat with your name on it in parliament and Hermione’s already talking about cradle-betrothing our son to Alicia. Forget about Astoria’s fool of a father; your grandson could be king.”

“Yeah,” Greg Goyle mutters, turning away from his future father-in-law. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise Zabini isn’t quite sure how he feels about weddings. He admires Astoria as she comes down the aisle; she’s managed to lose the baby weight fast, he thinks, except for those breasts. Damn. And, he has to admit that she and Greg do look rather disgustingly adorable as they exchange vows. Funny how Greg managed to get the girl in the end, got her with love and everything. Merlin, he’d been a right nuisance the way he’d mooned about after her for years.

Still, though, weddings are fussy things, with relatives you don’t like cluttering up every corner and catered food that always seems the same. The band is always too loud, the cake always prettier than it is tasty. He appreciates the open bar but he can afford his own alcohol so it’s not like he can’t drink what he wants when he wants it.

Luna looks gorgeous, of course. She’s done that thing she’s taken to doing where she layers dresses over one another. She’s explained to him that the colors and patterns all have meaning and that she works to coordinate her choices on both an aesthetic and symbolic level. “It’s like a puzzle,” she’d said as he sat on the bed and admired her while she got ready. She’s woven ambrosia and pink camellias into her hair and the colors frame her face and she wanders through the crowd. Trust Luna to combine what looks like a weed and a hothouse flower into one design.

He’d asked Luna what she thought of marriage as she’d pulled the third dress on and she’d sort of sighed and said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea if you’re just looking for someone to complete you. No one can ever do that. You have to be your own person.”

He’d dropped the subject and now, thinking about what she’d said, he finds this wedding unutterably depressing. He doesn’t even want a _wedding_. He wants… her.

Hermione hands him a drink and surveys the crowd. He eyes her glass and she mutters, “It’s sparkling water. Merlin, you people are a pain.”

“Just looking out for you, Lady,” he demurs and she rolls her eyes.

“Blaise,” she frowns at him and he immediately focuses on her. “If I might give you a little piece of advice…”

“Yes?”

“Look up the flowers Luna has in her hair. I’d hate for her to give up and wander off because you just aren’t paying attention.”

He looks at her, eyes narrowed. She knows something, damn her, but clearly has no intention of telling him. “Hermione,” he hisses but she only smiles at him. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Theodore Nott glides across the dance floor, Pansy tucked into his arms. They’ve known each other so long they don’t feel any need to talk and they fit into one another as only people who were forced to start partnering in dance lessons at the age of six can do. Weddings always lead to annoying speculations about who he plans to marry and one of the great things about Pansy is she knows it won’t be her, doesn’t even want it to be her. 

“I’d rather date someone actually attracted to me, Theo,” she’d said the last time the papers had paired them up as a romantic couple, “and, let’s face it, you’re not.”

Tonight’s been a trial. Astoria had opted for a huge wedding and every bloody unmarried girl in attendance had managed to snag a dance with him. Most of them had prattled on about how much they loved children, how sweet Æthel seemed, how the girl needed a mother. Subtle they weren’t.

He’d love to see any one of these brainless, spineless idiots try to cope with Æthel. Or with him, for that matter.

He smiles for the photographer, one of several working the event, knowing he’ll be paired with dear old Pans in the next edition of the society pages. The idea that the two of them would ever be a couple, much less get married, is absurd, no matter what the society page wants to print; they’d have to both need a marriage of convenience - and need it pretty badly - for _that_ to ever happen. Still, between Pansy and all the girls he’s had to dance with tonight, he’d take Pansy. At least she doesn’t have any romantic illusions about him; at least she can handle Æthel.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco brings the plate with the cake to Hermione; his own bride has settled into a chair at the edge of the room and he can tell by the expression on her face she’s unusually displeased with him, or about him, or about something. Maybe it’s just her feet. Maybe it’s time to stop nagging her about the shoes.

“Cake, milady?” he hands her the plate and, with a quick signal to a hovering staff member, acquires a chair of his own and sits next to her. “A lovely event, no?”

Hermione shrugs and plunges her fork into the cake. “I suppose.”

He looks at her; she’s wearing the green silk bridesmaid dress, actual decorative grasses woven into a strange kind of tiara – Astoria was ridiculously literal in her wedding theme choices – and a sullen, grouchy frown. “What’s the matter?”

She shrugs again and eats another bite of the tasteless cake. “This is terrible,” she mutters and sets the plate on a small table. She’s barely pulled her hand away before a caterer whisks in and removes the slice and it’s as if it had never been there. 

“Well, I agree about the cake,” Draco reaches a hand out to her, laces his fingers through hers, “but you looked miserable before you bit into it so I don’t think that’s the only thing that’s bothering you.” They sit for a bit before he adds, “Talk to me, Hermione. If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t make it better.”

She gives him a wan little smile at that. “I’d never been to one of these before, you know?”

“A wedding?” He doubts that. Who hasn’t been to a wedding?

“A _pureblood_ wedding,” she clarifies. “Well, I’ve been to a Weasley wedding but…”

“Not the same?”

“No.”

“Well, they are interminably boring, I admit, and you’ve discovered the issue with caring more about how the cake looks than anything else, but I still don’t see – “

“I took this from you,” she cuts him off. “This is what your wedding should have been. Something big and fancy with flowers and decorations and… and you didn’t get that because you married me. Because you married a mu – “

“If you say that word I may slap you.” The threat startles both of them, and she snaps her head around.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Draco tightens his grip on her hand. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just can’t stand to hear you talk about yourself like that.” He sighs and rubs his forehead with his free hand. “You know I’d never… I didn’t want this… this wedding thing. Yes, I always assumed it’s what I would have because it’s all I knew but I don’t care about it, didn’t care about it. I got you, that’s all that bloody well mattered. You think Greg cares about the colour scheme or the favors? He’s just thrilled it’s Astoria. And if you think Blaise and Luna are even going to _have_ a wedding, well, then there was something in that cake besides sugar and flour because we both know they’ll just show up someday, having been married for months and months, and having forgotten to tell anyone. Luna will say something like, ‘but I’ve been wearing yellow so I assumed you all knew.’”

Hermione laughs at that, a laugh that might be slightly choked with tears but, Draco thinks, a laugh. 

“Let’s go, sweetheart,” he lets go of her and holds his hand out. At her look, he says, “the shoes, hand them over. I have a room upstairs for us but maybe you’d like to walk there without pain?”

“My hero,” she pulls off the shoes but holds them herself, uses his hand to help pull herself out of the chair. “Let’s go.”

He whispers something into her ear as they slip away and she tightens her grip on his hand. “And I you. So very much.”

** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luna’s flowers mean ‘your love is reciprocated’ and ‘longing for you’. Yes, Blaise is being a tad dense.


	27. Chapter 27

Draco hesitates before telling her the news. “She’s dead,” he finally says.

“Who?” Hermione looks up at him from the breakfast table, tea in her hand and hostility in her eyes. She’s started throwing up again in the mornings and it occurs to Draco, maybe too late, that this might not have been the best timing, maybe he should have waited until the afternoon.

“Ginny Weasley. She was found dead. A bit ago, actually, but they’re finally releasing the information. She apparently choked to death on her own vomit after drinking a tad much.”

Hermione shrugs and takes a sip of the peppermint tea that is supposed to calm her stomach; it so far has failed to manage to do this, and some days it has failed fairly spectacularly, but she keeps hoping. 

“You…you’re all right?” he asks.

“Am I supposed to pretend to be torn up that an old school chum died?” Hermione looks at him. “She hasn’t spoken to me in years, totally bought into the claim that I was a horrible bitch who used and abandoned her precious brother, and I engineered her death. Don’t you think acting sad would be a trifle hypocritical?”

Draco’s lips twitch up in a smile. “I sometimes forget how evil and vindictive you really are.”

“I’ll act appropriately distraught if asked about it in public.”

“Do that.” He hands her a plate with some toast and she stares at it glumly; she’d thought she was done with morning sickness. No wonder Narcissa had stopped after one.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo leans up against the doorway, Æthel's first letter from Hogwarts in his hand. Hermione thinks she might throttle him; he knows what she’s waiting to hear and he's dragging this out just to torture her. 

"Everything's going well," he says. "She had a good trip on the train," he says. "People knew who she was, of course, but she found a couple of kids who didn't give her a hard time about it."

"Really?" Hermione says through gritted teeth from her place on the couch. "That's great."

"She managed not to lose FluffyButt,” Theo continues, “which, given how that cat seems to specialize in disappearing, might be proof miracles really do happen."

"FluffyButt?" Draco snickers. He’s been going through the most recent reports on both the informal election polling Blaise has been doing through the underground and the increasing interest on installing Hermione as, well, not “Minister for Life” but as queen. Regent. He likes to think of it as regent but, technically, until the baby is born, that might be tricky to pull off.

"She's eleven," Theo looks at the other man. "What'd you expect her to name the cat? Bast?"

"Frankly, yes." 

"Theo," Hermione keeps a smile pasted on her face. "How was everything else?"

"Well, she doesn't care for one of her roommates. Apparently the girl can't quite decide whether she should suck up to Lady Nott or dismiss the Death Eater orphan but she thinks the other girls in their room are fine." Theo leaves his doorway and settles down on a chair, props his feet on a low table and lounges insouciantly, regarding Hermione as he closes up Æthel’s letter and prepares to put it away. "All in all, I'd say a good first letter. She's adjusting well - "

"Theo," Hermione wails.

"What?" he looks at her. "Is something bothering you? Some kind of weird pregnancy thing? Or it is one of the wonder twins causing trouble? I can’t do much about the baby growing stuff, but, if it’s the latter, just say the word, Lady, and I'd be honored to take care of them for you."

Draco smothers a cough.

"I can do it fast, I can do it slow, but, I assure you, ridding the world of either of those two would..."

"Theodore." This time she sounds like she's warning him, and he gives her an innocent look.

"Have I offended you in some way, Lady?" He moves as if he were going to lower himself to his knees in medieval supplication before her and she actually growls.

"Which _house_, Theo? Which house was she sorted into?"

"Oh, that." He settles back into his seat and smiles at her, his mischievous, slightly evil smile. "Was there really any doubt?"

"Theo!" It’s an actual wail and by this point, Draco has his hands over his mouth to muffle his snickers. He always enjoys seeing Hermione in her role as harassed little sister instead of poised politician.

After pretending to be confused to stretch out his teasing even longer, Theo finally laughs and relents. "Slytherin. She said they didn't even get the hat all the way onto her head before she was sorted."

"That's my girl," Draco gets up, sounding pleased and smug. "Should we open a bottle of champagne to celebrate?"

Hermione puts on an only partially feigned pout at the news and huffs. "Sparkling water for me, dammit. And I was hoping for Gryffindor."

Both men nearly choke on their laughs and Draco, halfway towards the cabinet with the glasses, turns to look at her. "You have _met_ your niece, right?"

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise and Theo had fussed and worried and strategized and finally – finally – they’d found what they both agree is the perfect venue for Hermione’s first ‘barroom chat.’ They plan to have her do these every few weeks until the election, giving the ‘common people’ a chance to directly ask her questions in an informal setting.

Not that there aren’t reporters there, of course. They have their own, plus who knows how many who will simply show up. The little pub they’ve selected will only seat a few people, though, so it’s important that they can get the transcript out. They’d considered larger spaces but had decided, after much debate, that keeping the discussion intimate was more important than reaching a larger audience in person.

Now they’ve set her up on a small dais at one end of the room. She’s settled herself back into an armchair, apologizing to the waitress for how she needs the soft chair but that sitting in hardback chairs for long periods of time has just become too difficult and, well, her midwife wants her to avoid it. The waitress fawns over her, bringing her both still and sparkling water and asking if she’d like a plate of cookies the kitchen had made just for her. 

Hermione isn’t tactless enough to say no even though the very thought of sweets makes her stomach churn. Instead, she asks the woman how many children she has, what did she think about pregnancy, wasn’t the ban on cheese just ridiculous? 

People slip in, settle around tables in the small restaurant, sit down at the bar. Promptly at 2:00 Theo steps to the front of her little stage and says, “Thank you all for coming. As you know, my…” he pauses, then starts up again, “My friend Hermione Granger-Malfoy is running for Minister of Magic and it’s my great pleasure to introduce her to you today. I don’t think her background needs repeating; everyone knows of her work during the war. Fewer people may know that since then, rather than living the high life, she’s been working a simple job at the Ministry and volunteering at the Phoenix Orphanage. And, of course, she’s married to one of my best friends and they’re expecting their first child.” He calls back to the rear of the room, “I expect to be asked to be godfather, Draco,” and everyone laughs.

“We want to keep this event informal – it’s your chance to ask her anything that interests you and hear her answer instead of getting what, in any campaign, inevitably turns into packaged responses no matter how we try to avoid that. So… with no more tedious blather from me, let me turn the floor over to you, all of you. We’ve set up a podium for people to stand at when they ask questions so there’s no stress about who’s next but, don’t worry, everyone who wants to will get a chance to ask the lady their question.”

Theo points out the podium, a line three people deep already in place behind it, and settles into a seat near Hermione. Blaise and Draco stand at the back of the room with Marcus, who’s watching for any signs of trouble. They don’t expect any but it can’t hurt to be over-prepared.

“Do you think that latent prejudice is hurting your campaign?” asks the first person, a short woman with bad teeth and an expensive scarf.

Hermione sighs and Draco tries not to smirk. They haven’t even seeded the audience and she’s still getting the questions they want most.

“I know we just fought a war that nominally centered around blood status,” Hermione rubs her stomach and Draco smiles, thinking of how they’d practiced that sweet, apparently unconscious move, at home. “But I think – I’d like to think – we’ve all moved on from that. I certainly hope that no one is voting for me, or not voting for me, because of my birth. I’d much rather be hated for my ideas, wouldn’t you?” 

The next person – a weedy boy who doesn’t look old enough to have graduated school yet – steps up. “What really happened with you and Ron Weasley?”

Draco tenses at that one.

Hermione, however, laughs. “I had such a horrible crush on him in school. Who here remembers their first crush? How he was perfect, no matter how terrible his table manners or how he ignored you? How you’d do his homework to get him to look at you?” An easy laugh, one that echoes hers, ripples from one woman to another across the room as they all remember that boy, the one who they’d tried to work up the courage to talk to at fourteen. He was the one who’d only noticed the Quidditch star, or the beauty, or the popular girl, some girl who, inevitably, wasn’t them. “Let me tell you, sometimes when you actually get to date that crush, it doesn’t work out that well.” 

Another knowing laugh from the women in the room, along with a smile from the boy who’d asked the question.

“I mean,” Hermione looks so very sincere, “I won’t say a thing against Ron. It turned out that we didn’t really have anything in common and I’m not at all sorry it ended because if I hadn’t been single I wouldn’t have reconnected with Draco Malfoy and wouldn’t be married to a man I adore. But Ron’s a… he was a really good man in the war. We couldn’t have done it without him and nothing that’s happened since can ever change that.”

Blaise looks at Draco and mouths, “You were worried?” Draco grimaces. He hadn’t been worried, exactly, though he’s impressed she managed to belittle his post-war activities all while seemingly praising the man. The jab about the man’s table manners had been a nice touch. Still, he hates Ron, hates hearing her talk about him. 

The event goes on, Hermione answering questions about economics, about the orphanage, about what she plans to name her baby (“We haven’t even told the grandmother, so I’m going to have to pass that one.”). She gets people to laugh, charms an elderly man who insists a new mother shouldn’t have a job, flirts outrageously with a toddler who gives her his biscuit. When it’s clear that people are starting to ask second and third questions, making up anything just to get a chance to have her focused on them again – Blaise congratulates himself on the efficacy of his rabbit spell – Theo steps up and announces that they’ll do one more question before calling it a day.

“Are you Nimue?” a little girl asks.

Hermione waves her up to the dais and smiles at the girl, leans forward to whisper to her, a whisper that carries through the suddenly silent room. “Only if you want me to be.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“Blaise,” Theo sits at the table, surrounded by books, muggle and wizard, and he’s been getting more and more worried the more he reads. 

“What?” 

“Do you ever wonder if setting the Nimue legend in motion was a good idea?” Theo closes up the book in front of him and pushes it away. “Most magic, it’s… we skim the surface. We turn a mouse to a cup and back again; we wash dishes without having to get our hands wet. We don’t do anything _real._”

“That would be one of my issues with the current set up, yes,” Blaise still hasn’t looked up from his Quidditch magazine. Two months out from the election and he’s feeling fairly confident they have this. 

“There’s a _reason_ we don’t plumb the depths,” Theo continues, trying to get the other man to pay attention to him. “Even things like the little spell you did with the rabbit, that kind of work just dives down a few feet at most. And that’s considered dark magic, dangerous, totally forbidden.”

“You’re really still just listing off the reasons I’m happy with our lovely Lady. If we want to be able to protect ourselves from hoards of muggles around us, we need to actually use our resources.”

“You aren’t listening,” Theo frowns and taps his fingers on the table. “Let me extend the metaphor a bit. If most of what we learn just skims the top of the water, and the things we’ve been doing on the sly go down under the surface just a tad, what if there are rip tides that could pull us out, pull us under? Blaise, how far down does the magic go?”

The other man finally looked up. “What are you getting at, and what does this have to do with Nimue?”

“Magic is… it’s the magician working his will, right? Will made manifest?”

“If you say so.” Blaise has never been especially interested in abstract theory; he just wants to know ‘does it work’ and ‘how do I do it’.

“We make our gods, we make them powerful, and we do it with our belief, Blaise, and we’re convincing an entire nation of magicians that Hermione Granger is Nimue, a powerful and untamable figure out of history. Thousands of people who regularly use their will to change the world in all sorts of trivial, magical ways, all focusing that will, that belief, on one woman. Doesn’t that strike you as… risky? What if we’re tapping into things we can’t control? Elemental things, things that have nothing to do with wand-waving and doing the dishes?

“If that’s the case,” Blaise says, going back to his magazine, “then I’m glad she’s on our side.”

That’s the problem, Theo thinks. I’m pretty sure Hermione Granger is on our side. What lurks in the depths? Nimue? That I’m not so sure about.

. . . . . . . . .

The pamphlets begin to arrive via owl, laying out the details of the Ministry's economic scandals. They're professional and tidy - Luna's printing skills are quite good - and it doesn't take long for everyone to have one. Most people already know about the orphanage accounting scandal but the _Daily Prophet_ had left out the issue with the farm contracts. That the government had thrown food aid money - or rather had promised farm contracts to grow food destined for food aid - to people willing to wait for the returns from the ill-fated international investments comes as news to most people. Unwelcome news. 

No one's even surprised to see Kingsley Shacklebolt's name attached to the scandal. "Internal memos reveal," the pamphlet reads, and "personally signed off on the deal." The man denies all connection, of course, but not everyone believes him. Some do, of course, but not all.

What really gets people talking isn't the economic scandal. Even broken down into digestible bits, the ins and outs of money skimmed from over here into that budget there with double bookkeeping and then invested all the way over there are, bluntly, esoteric; not everyone’s a policy wonk. That the Ministry stole money, however, stole it from food aid budgets and from war orphans, that people were on the take up and down the whole line of the scandal, that people could follow. Even if they can't quite understand how the debased coinage they read about has led to more expensive produce. they read that their government is directly responsible for higher prices, for their increasingly difficult circumstances, and they believe it.

It helps, as Hermione has been known to say, that it's all true.

No, while the economic complexity remain the part of the equation people nod about, agree with their friends that it's truly a scandal, it's not the message that people really take away from Luna's little pamphlets. What they take away is that their government is corrupt. They take away that the current Wizengamot looked the other way. They take away that the Order of the Phoenix can't be trusted, that they aren't only decadent but that they are also thieves. Every society page spread showing a member of the Order drinking, partying, dressed up becomes a piece of evidence against them. They can afford that, people say, because they stole from us. 

"I knew," one woman would say to her friends at a book club, "that they'd seized some Death Eater properties, but I had no idea how much they'd taken, taken from ordinary people."

"Even those seizures," someone would respond, "so unfair. It's one thing to tax people to pay for a war but reparations that go so far they actually cripple an economy? So a few people can drink champagne? That's not reasonable."

Slowly popular sentiment shifts and people grow to believe the Notts, the Malfoys, the Parkinsons - all the old families - had been unfairly penalized at the end of the war. "Lucius Malfoy died in prison," a man would say. "He paid for his crimes. Why should Ronald Weasley get to drink away the results of generations of honest work just because one man was a criminal? Why shouldn't that money be used to employ people? To invest in other businesses?" The charts that Luna has neatly laid out showing the costs of the war, the values of the seized assets, and the dramatic difference between the two convince more and more people that the government robbed not just the poor but also the rich. 

"Theft is theft," a shopkeeper says to her customers, "whether you steal from a poor child or a rich magnate. It's still wrong."

Hermione watches the popular opinion as it changes to support returning estates to the wealthy, as more and more people say that’s the only fair thing to do; she and Daphne smile at one another as they look over the results of each of Blaise's surveys of the underground.

"We're winning," Daphne breathes one day, looking at Hermione in awe. "You've convinced people who clean houses for a living that it's just right and fair and moral that all our vaults be returned to us, that our estates be returned."

"No one," Hermione doesn't even look up from her desk, "likes to think of herself as poor, or even middle class. Everyone believes she is just a temporarily embarrassed millionaire and that mistaken belief makes people malleable to tax policy that really only benefits the wealthy, meaning you. Throw in a gloss of moral righteousness and people will argue against their own economic self-interest with remarkable fervor."

"You," Draco says, wrapping his arms around her at night, "are amazing."

"We planned it together," she replies, running her fingers through his hair, watching the way each strand is almost translucent, how they layer on each other to be that amazing white blond. "Just two more months and the election part of our little coup will be over and then the real work begins."

"Work?" he asks with a smirk.

"Work, fun," she shrugs. "Call it whichever you like. The economics is just the beginning. What we really need is for people to distrust the current system of government."

"Distrust it so thoroughly," he smiles at her, a cold, cold smile, "that they'd prefer a queen."

"A benevolent dictatorship is, after all, the most efficient form of government," she says smugly.

"As long as you're the dictator?"

"Of course."

He leans in to kiss her, his mouth leaving a trail along her jaw and down her neck. "You'll make a very sexy queen," he murmurs into her shoulder as he begins to loosen the tie of her wrap dress.

"And you, my sweet," she says, helping him get her out of her clothes, "will make a most desirable power behind the throne."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Look," Ron frowns at Harry as he sets out the pages he's collected. "She's got her fingers in the Prophet. That same photographer who shot me pushing her? That guy did her wedding, the party with the orphan, even the orphan expose."

"That ran without a byline," Harry objects, but he's running his eyes over the evidence Ron's gathered with an increasingly grim line to his mouth.

"I had to do a little digging, by which I mean lying," Ron admits. "I called the paper and said I represented an agency interested in nominating that photographer for an award for excellence in investigative journalism. They told me without any hesitation. It's the same guy."

"The limericks," Harry looks up at Ron.

"I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised. You overheard those snakes going on and then I thought about that bitch flipping you off when Astoria did her little reveal. She knew, Harry. She knew. The orphanage? How much do you want to bet she's only interested in that place because it let her discredit my mother? She's trying to strip everything from us. Her and Malfoy."

Harry slumps in his chair, his temporary interest already waning. Harry's broken. Too broken, maybe, Ron thinks to be able to really help him with this but that's okay. Ever since Ginny died Harry’s spent most of his days staring at the walls. He'll eat if you put food in front of him, answer if you talk to him, but he's crawled away to somewhere deep inside himself and isn't really trying anymore.

"Do you really think Ginny is... her fault?" Harry hesitates. That's all he really cares about, now. Let Hermione marry that ferret and bear his brats. Let her be Minister. Hell, let her be queen if that's what she wants. Just so long as she pays for Ginny's death. He looks up at Ron. "Is it her fault?"

"It is," the redhead says, his best mate. Hermione had been his best friend, the one he could lean on, but somehow that had gone away, she had gone away, and he'd stopped trying. He didn't care anymore. It was too hard to try. 

"What do you want to do?" he asks, dropping the papers back to the table. Ron's drawn all these lines, all these plots. Maybe he's right. “Stop her from getting elected?”

“I don’t care about her run for Minister.” Ron shakes his head. “Let her play her political games. I want to take away everything she cares about. The niece, the husband, the ‘brother’, the baby.”

“Okay,” Harry says, staring down. When did Hermione become the enemy? He’s not even sure, but if she’s responsible for Ginny’s death - Ron says she is and Ron had loved Hermione once so he wouldn’t lie about that – then she has to pay.

. . . . . . . . .

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Draco has his arms wrapped around Hermione as she stands at their sink, drying dishes. She still insists doing dishes is soothing, a plebian task that horrifies Theo whenever he sees her do it. 

“I want cheese more than might be healthy,” she smiles as she puts another cup away.

“I knew that,” he leans in to kiss her neck, breathing in the way she smells. Shampoo, yes, but also something that is only hers. “Try again.”

“You do this thing with your tongue that I really quite like.” She is actually snuggling back into him and his fondness for what Hermione is like pregnant continues to grow, along with other things. The mornings are rough again, but her insatiable appetite for all things, well, him has been a wholly unexpected part of this experience. Delightful, but unexpected.

Also, as conversations with Greg have confirmed, not universal. 

“You are one lucky bastard,” was all the man had said. 

“I,” Draco said, running the tongue in question along the edge of her earlobe, “would have had to have been blind to have not noticed that. So, I’m afraid that still doesn’t count.”

“Kicking,” she says and he’s totally confused until she turns and puts his hand on her belly. “Feel the kicking.”

He puts his hand over her and there’s the faintest push back, a series of staccato hits tapping against him and he stares in wonder at his hand, at her. 

“Our son,” he breathes. 

“That’s him,” she agrees, then, with a grin, “Or her. Does that count as a thing you didn’t know?”

But Draco is too enchanted to respond.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise looks at the flowers he’s assembled. He feels like a bit of a total arse but... he’s already in for far more than a penny. Primroses. Orange blossoms. Spider flowers, which had been almost impossible to find but which the book _had sworn_ meant ‘elope with me.’

He inhales and knocks on the door of Luna’s flat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this five years ago. It is incredibly creepy to reread it now that the rise of fascism isn't an intellectual exercise but a thing happening around us.


	28. Chapter 28

"What's that?" Arthur looks at the badge George has shoved into his pocket.

"I joined a service organization," the younger man responds. "Knights of the Lady."

Arthur Weasley looks at his son, confused. "Why not just stick with the Order?"

George snorts with some disgust; his father is a sweet man but he has no idea what the secret society he joined in his own youth has turned into. "I said 'service organization', not 'party frat'. I don't need help to have fun but it's nice to belong to a group that can coordinate efforts to help those poor kids and do… stuff." He fishes the badge back out and hands it to his father. The simple line drawing of a woman emerging from water, a sword held above her head, seems to almost float above the stiff fabric.

Arthur looks at the graphic with his brow furrowed. It reminds him of something but he's not quite sure what. "What do you all do?" 

George shrugs. "We're repainting the inside of the orphanage right now and next week we're going to start building a playground." He pauses, somewhat uncomfortably, then adds, "Dad, I know Mum's the head of the Board but... you guys didn't know how bad the conditions were there, right? Or about the way the funds were getting diverted?"

Arthur shifts and scratches the back of his head before saying, "I've never actually been inside the place." The statement has the virtue of being factually true, if little else. "Who's the 'Lady'" he asks, expecting George to laugh and say it's just a moniker they've assembled under, a little romantic medieval colour to dress up their charity group. Instead, George's face becomes carefully neutral.

"I can't tell you that," is all he says and, as he did when he saw the badge, Arthur feels a twinge of unease. 

. . . . . . . . .

“Are you really thinking of cradle-betrothing the baby to Alicia?” Draco traces his fingers up Hermione’s hip as they lie in bed, memorizing the endlessly wonderful changes in her figure.

She rolls towards him and balances herself on that hip and her belly before shrugging. “If he’s a boy.”

“It’ll be a boy,” Draco says, with a laugh. No one but her bothers to question the baby’s sex; Malfoys always have sons. Of course, if she pops out a daughter she’ll never let him forget it, not when the baby is little, not when they send her off to Hogwarts, not when they settle a crown on her pretty head. He still thinks it’ll be a boy though.

“It’s mostly political, of course, binding the Greengrasses and the Goyles to us. I’m pretty sure Astoria knows about… me.” Draco raises his eyebrows and Hermione sighs. “The muggle-born thing.”

“Oh.”

“I know Daphne knows.” She frowns. “Greg’s the one who might be a problem; he’s fairly narrow-minded in that area. Tying them to us, making his daughter a potential queen, should work to alleviate any hissy fit he might throw upon learning I’m not _quite_ what he thinks.”

“You’ve decided you want the whole inner circle to know?”

“Eventually, yes. Anyone who can’t handle it will have to be… dealt with. Once I’m elected we don’t need to play the blood status card, we’ll have moved on to Nimue. The masses can keep debating what I am, but the people we trust to run things? We need to know they won’t turn on us in some misguided bout of blood purity ideology. No internal coups of our coup.”

Draco nods.

“And, of course, if the kids hate each other, or, well, more importantly, if it becomes politically inexpedient, we just dissolve the engagement. But… I’d like to be able to pull Harry’s bloodline back into power. Even if we have to… deal with him… I’d like to honor his memory that way. If we can.”

“As long as it’s expedient?”

“Well, yes.”

“You could also just put her on the Wizengamot.”

Hermione looks at him, amused. “She can’t even sit up yet.”

Draco shrugs. “Daphne takes the Greengrass seat, Astoria sits in as regent for her daughter, the sole remaining Potter.” Getting regency as a custom established suits him just fine. “And you can still marry them off if you want to.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Ron stands in the kitchen, feeling awkward and angry and determined all at once. Since Ginny's death his mother has been cooking with unrelenting fervor. She's made casseroles, cakes, breads, soups. She stirs and chops and kneads as though every punch of her fist into bread dough might bring her daughter back. "I don't even know what to do with it all," she says, without turning around. "I've given things to everyone in your father's department. I've fed Harry. I've fed George. I've sent cookies to Charlie and Bill, and Fleur doesn't even like my cooking."

"She does, mum," Ron murmurs. "She does."

"I just can't stop. I can't... I can't stop." She measures nuts into the batter she's been stirring and brushes her hair out of her face. 

"Mum," Ron begins, then stops. He's not sure if she'll believe him. He knows he sounds a bit like some daft conspiracy theorist. 

"What is it, Ronald," she snaps, then sighs. "I'm sorry."

"I don't think Ginny died by accident," he says.

Molly Weasley stiffens at the counter. "I will not listen to any accusation that she committed..."

"No!" Ron interrupts her, shocked. "I think she was murdered, or as good as."

Molly turns around, her wooden spoon still in her hand. "What do you mean?" A blob of batter falls from her spoon to the floor with a loud splat but she doesn't even look down.

"I think Hermione deliberately drove her to it." He hurries on before she can stop him, before she can mutter how that’s not possible. "I'm not sure how, but I think she knew about Astoria - I know she did - and she somehow used that to push Ginny over the brink." He stops, then adds again, hopelessly, "I don't think it was an accident."

Molly stands there, holding her spoon out as first one, then two, more globs of batter fall to the floor. Finally, she says, "I wouldn't put it past her. She's lied to Percy about you, she's hiding behind that ridiculous story she's a pureblood to be Minister. She's married that Death Eater and now she's..."

"Just like him," Ron finishes.

"Can you prove it?" Molly turns back to her bowl, practicality bubbling to the top of her thoughts. Obviously, anyone who hurt Ginny - who even tried to hurt Ginny - needs to be taken care of. This isn't a war, though. She can't just strike the wretched girl down in the street.

"I can't," Ron says. "We can't send her to trial. Nothing like that."

"Then we have to use other methods." Molly stirs with brutal vigor. 

"That's what Harry and I were thinking," Ron says. "Let me put on some water for tea and I'll tell you what I'm - what we're - planning."

. . . . . . . . . .

No one would call the marches in the streets 'riots', though several people note the presence of Aurors, discreetly standing towards the sides. Fewer people see Marcus Flint, stalking along the edge of the crowd and getting a feel for the dynamics, how people move, what muttered insults get the biggest response. 

The placards are mostly polite. ‘_Change_’ they read, and ‘_Traditional Values’_. Some of them have a phoenix roasting on a spit. Marcus notices the Aurors quietly confiscate those; he reminds himself to tell Pansy to get more of those made up for the next protest. He’d love to see scores of people carrying those, and maybe some with the sigil of the Lady.

A protest march, Marcus thinks to himself, turns out to be very much like a Quidditch match. There are patterns to the way people act, the way groups move. He wants to figure them out, to understand them, to figure out the levers he can use to move people one way or the other so when the Lady calls for violence he can deliver it with precision.

. . . . . . . . . . .

When Ron saunters up to his newest ladybird's flat he isn’t expecting to get slapped. He’s thinking about how much he enjoys her, how stunning she is, and so when she opens her door, glares at him, and hits him before shutting the door with a long bang he’s genuinely flabbergasted. He’d thought things had been going so well. Apparently not.

Well, there were more fish in the sea, always. More fish in his sea, certainly, so off to the flat of another prime article. Sure, she doesn't speak much English but he isn't with her for her conversational skills, he thinks to himself with a smirk.

She, at least, doesn't slap him but she does slam the door on him without any explanation.

Maybe, he thinks, the stars are aligned against me tonight. Maybe I should just go to the pub and get a drink, sans lady friend.

At the pub - one of his favorites - he keeps getting the feeling that people are looking at him as he leans up against the bar and orders a pint. "Nice work, man." One scruffy-looking bloke hits him on the arm and chuckles, and Ron looks at the man, perplexed. He sees a table of three other men, so young he wonders how it is they've already graduated school, and they point at him and he thinks to himself that this feels different. He's used to people asking if he's really Ron Weasley, if he’s really Harry Potter's best friend, did he really help kill Voldemort. He's used to being asked to sign napkins, to pose for pictures. He's gotten used to being gracious about it; hell, he loves being gracious about it, pretending the fame - the fame he loves so very much - is a bit of a burden but he's still going to be courteous to his fans.

This doesn't feel like fans. This feels like a group of schoolboys laughing behind their hands at him. For all there seems to be a certain leering admiration from some people, like the man who high fives him on the way to the loo, all those people seem a bit seedy, a bit crude. Where are the pretty girls who want to run back to their mates and tell them 'Ron Weasley said hi to me'? Where are the free drinks sent over by older women, still grateful he'd saved their children, saved their friends. 

He finally figures out what's going on when the barmaid, a nasty gleam in her eye, hands him a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ without speaking. There's a photo spread featuring… him. "Ron Weasley - Our Phoenix King?" reads the title and every picture shows him caught _in flagrante delicto_, black bars across his bits but most certainly not across his face or the faces of the women he’s with. 

Well, he thinks, I guess that explains the slammed doors and the slap.

The only text the paper has run with the pictures asks whether this is the behavior we expect from our heroes. Shouldn’t we embrace older values, the paper asks.

He looks at the name of the photographer and isn't surprised to see who it is.

This, this public ridicule - and with it the loss of his pretty little birds - this is Hermione's fault too.

. . . . . . . . . . .

“I’d like to meet up with our core team this weekend,” Hermione is rubbing at her pelvis, which has started to ache in a way she can’t quite call pain but which certainly isn’t pleasant either. “Go over the post-election plans.”

“Can’t,” Draco looks up from his reports. “I mean, you can meet with me and Theo if you want, but Blaise is out of town.”

Hermione squinches up her nose and looks at him. “Really? Where’d he go?”

“Gretna Green.”

“No!” Hermione breathes out and almost claps her hands. “They didn’t!”

“Apparently they did,” Draco grins at her. “Who knew Luna was such a traditionalist. It’s a secret, or I think it is.” He frowns for a moment. “Hard to be wholly sure with her.”

“I promise to be properly surprised when she tells me.”

“If she tells you,” Draco goes back to his reading. “She might forget.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“Lady! Lady Malfoy!” Hermione turns and looks at the reporter who’s following her. This isn’t one of hers and she’s tired, her feet hurt and, she muses, politics is a harsh mistress. When I’m queen of the bloody world, she thinks, I’ll let the boys play with people who accost me on the street. That’ll make everything think twice about stopping me to ask me their idiotic questions.

Of course, she’s not queen of the world yet; she’s just a grouchy, pregnant woman so, as much as she’d like to, she can’t just torture people who annoy her. Draco stands next to her, her devoted husband, a man she’s come, against all expectations, to see as a partner in more than just their devious plans. Funny, she thinks, how he looks like the most patient, placid political spouse; so many people see a shark and mistakenly think he’s a goldfish because he’s learned patience, because he stands half a step behind her. The more fools, they.

Of course, if they’ve laid their plans well, Ron and Harry probably see him more as a puppet master, which is equally hilarious. Still, it should keep them from being able to muster any cohesive force against her until it’s too late.

“Yes,” she smiles at the reporter, “Can I help you?”

“I wondered if you had a statement about the orphanage, as a candidate I mean?” the woman has her writing pad out and is eager to get, what? A scoop? Does this woman think I’m going to say _anything _unexpected, Hermione wonders.

“If you don’t mind,” she puts on her sad face, “I’d like to respond both as a candidate and as a woman about to have a child and, of course, as an aunt.”

“Please do,” the reporter nearly quivers in her excitement at getting something good.

“As a candidate let me assure you that, were I to be elected, I would pursue this matter to the full extent of the law. While it can look like a complicated issue on the surface, and there are, certainly, layers of economic malfeasance we’ll need to peel back, the core of the problem is theft. Someone, or someones, apparently thought it was acceptable to steal from the neediest of our society. I think we all were taught as very young children that stealing is wrong and it remains wrong no matter how much bureaucratic language you use to dress it up.”

The woman is frantically writing and Hermione pauses and leans up against Draco while putting a hand on her ever-enlarging bump; Draco puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder and they stand there together.

“Would you sentence the current Minister to prison?” the woman asks.

“I believe,” Hermione looks serious, “that trials and sentences are the purview of the Wizengamot, but, again, let me be very blunt here. If evidence suggests you stole from orphans, you need to go to trial, whether you are a street-sweeper or the Minister of Magic.” She takes a breath and adds, “As a woman about to become a mother I may be over emotionally invested in the protection of children, but, it seems to me, a culture that abandons its youngest and most vulnerable members is a culture in the verge of committing suicide. We need to take a long, hard look at what we want to preserve in our customs, at what new habits should be discarded, at what older ways should be revitalized.”

A small crowd has gathered around them and someone mutters, “Damn right.” Hermione wonders if the speaker is one of Theo’s plants or whether the disgusted exclamation is wholly spontaneous. It’s become harder and harder to tell how much of the popular discontent is something they have a direct hand in; still, she makes a mental note to praise Theo. He’ll just laugh at her, of course, but she knows that, as much as he tries to avoid it, he’s as caught up in their little medieval pageant as the simplest peasant and it will please him to be formally acknowledged by his Lady.

“And, more,” Hermione continues, “I feel personally connected to the orphanage, of course, not only because of my volunteer work there but because my niece, Æthel, spent so many years there.”

“She’s not your niece,” Ron’s joined the growing crowd. His disparaging comment carries through a lull in the noise and Hermione doesn’t even try to control the irritation that dances across her face. “You’re nothing but a muggle-born; stop trying to pretend you’re some kind of pureblood. You’re not.”

There’s a gasp from someone and Hermione sighs. “Surely you’ve had people in your life, Ron, that were honorary aunts and uncles to you? If Æthel calls me ‘Aunt ‘Mione’ I feel fairly comfortable calling her my niece no matter who her, or my, parents were.” She rubs her belly and then adds, “She’s a little girl who’s never had family until recently so you can hardly blame her for wanting to bring as many people into her circle as she can; not all of us have loving parents and a house filled with siblings. I really wish you wouldn’t take your personal animosity against me out on a child who’s just starting her first year at school.”

“Leave her alone, you Phoenix scum,” a voice hisses from somewhere in the back.

“I thought caring about blood status was what Death Eaters did,” another voice mutters. “Some of us judge people on their accomplishments and character, not their ancestry.”

“Like Draco Malfoy would have married a mudblood.” The crowd stills at that and people look from face to face, telegraphing both their agreement with the sentiment and their unhappiness with the wording. The post-war social compact – that one simply doesn’t talk about blood-status as if it mattered – has been broken twice, once by Ron Weasley and once by some anonymous speaker, and no one is quite sure what to do.

Hermione raises her hand and said, “If I might?” and everyone turns to look at her. “I think we can all agree that the scandal around the orphanage is extremely upsetting and that none of us want those children to suffer. It would be the culmination of one of my dearest wishes if every child in that institution were to find a loving home. I know…” she let her voice break a little bit, “ I know that there are people with love to offer. I’d rather we focus on that instead of on slurs and old prejudices.”

Draco leans forward a bit and says, to the reporter, “if you don’t mind, I want to get my wife home and off her feet.”

Appropriate demurrals are made, people wish them both luck as they pass through the crowd. Draco looks adoring and Hermione looks gracious and poised until they close the door behind them and look at each other in the safety of their own flat.

“You are so brilliant,” he laughs. “_’Let’s not focus on slurs and old prejudices_.’”

“Ron,” she’s pulling off her shoes as she talks, “is the gift that keeps on giving.”

“Still,” Draco says, “I look forward to the day he’s _my_ gift.”

“You are remarkably bloodthirsty.”

“It’s why you adore me,” he scoffs before he pulls her against him, before he tucks her next words away with the things he cherishes. “Only one reason among so very many,” she says.


	29. Chapter 29

The morning owl comes bearing both a small package and a note. Æthel opens the package from her Aunt ‘Mione first, feigning nonchalance. She's already become adept at dormitory politics and too much enthusiasm is asking the resident mean girl to abscond with whatever you treasure. She could have hexed the girl, or physically beaten her senseless for that matter, but she’s been quietly cautioned by 'Lord Nott' to stay in the shadows and avoid attention. "You'll be a star your whole life, princess," he'd said. "Play it cool and find out who your real friends are while you still can." 

She is considering having a box of trick chocolates sent to another girl, one she’ll warn to gush at the table without sampling any. Watching Little Miss Mean steal the chocolates, gloat about it, then be violently ill or turn colors or swell up like a pufferfish, these are all delightful possibilities. The only problem is she’ll have to buy the things the next time she’s home and then repackage the chocolates so they aren’t obviously from the Weasleys as _everything_ from that shop is immediately confiscated. She wonders, briefly, if Uncle Draco would agree to mail to them her; she’s fairly sure her own father will refuse. If Uncle Draco won’t she knows Aunt ‘Mione will; “You won’t get caught?” is all she’d say, eyebrows raised.

Almost all her new family had given her some variation of “Don’t get caught” as their advice before she’d left. That and, “no one likes a braggart.” Growing up in an orphanage, she really hadn’t needed to be told any of that but it was good advice all the same so she didn't gloat about her connections to the powerful players in the political arena, didn't name drop.

She sure as hell didn't admit she'd heard her Aunt Mione telling her Dad to start teaching her the Dark Arts as soon as it was practical. That, Æthel thought, was unlikely to go over well at a school that still only taught Defense against such arts. Even Slytherin house was skittish about being too closely associated with the Dark after the last war. "Contrary to popular belief, this is not a house for Dark wizards and witches," their Head of House had said the first night. Æthel had looked properly solemn and intimidated while thinking, "Idiot." She can’t wait for lessons on stuff more interesting than turning needles to matchsticks.

Now she unwraps the newest book Aunt Mione has sent her and hides her smile to try to prevent her would-be tormenter from noticing it. _The Witch of Blackbird Pond_: Muggles had the best books. She supposes it must be some kind of compensation for having no magic. Alas, her least favorite roommate is paying attention this morning and she can’t just read the thing in peace.

"Another Muggle book? Merlin, I'd be embarrassed to get trash like that." The girl pauses before adding maliciously, "but I guess your aunt's a mudblood so she doesn't know any better."

Æthel tucks the book into her bag without saying anything then simply stares at the girl with the same unblinking gaze that so unnerved Ron Weasley. She’s definitely going to buy those chocolates next time she’s home; if she tells Uncle Draco what this girl just called Aunt ‘Mione he’ll definitely mail them for her.

"You're an embarrassment," a third-year drawls and Æthel looks over at her with a sharp turn of her head only to find the girl looking not at her but at her little problem. "You should have been sorted into Gryffindor given that you seem to be both brainless _and_ mean."

The girl tosses her head and says with what Narcissa Malfoy would have deemed a vulgar snort, "She's getting mudblood presents; she doesn't belong in our House."

“Uh-huh,” the older girl says. “Definitely Gryffindor.” A cruel snicker runs up and down the table; there’s really no worse insult for them. A Ravenclaw might be clever, and no one denied Hufflepuffs were nice, but the vicious inter-house rivalry ensured that no Slytherin would ever admit anything good about a Gryffindor. Not very bright, was the general consensus, and far too obvious to be respected. 

"Her aunt IS a filthy mudblood," her little tormenter continues, still pushing, not seeing the tide of opinion has turned against her. "It's carved right on her arm."

"It is.” Æthel shrugs. “Of course, I could carve ‘clever’ on your arm. It wouldn’t make it true.”

The students near enough to overhear her laugh loudly enough to earn a quick glare from their Head of House. Mealtimes are supposed to be decorous; consider it, their Head had suggested, a lesson in keeping your malice subtle enough to not attract attention. The third-year girl smiles at Æthel and they both quietly assess each other; political alliances start young.

Æthel opens another piece of mail and frowns.

“What is it?” 

“Someone sent me something from _Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes_. It’s just a notice of confiscation.”

“Weird.”

It is weird, Æthel thinks. There’s no one in her life who would send her something from that shop and, even if someone _did_ decide to send her a random present, everyone who cares about her is smart enough to know to repackage _Wizard Wheezes_. Very weird.

With a shrug, she dismisses the random, confiscated gift, pulls the juice pitcher forward and starts getting her breakfast.

. . . . . . . . . .

Narcissa looks around the nursery with approval. "I still think," she says, straightening books that had made the mistake of lounging dissolutely against one another in her presence, "that you should move to the Manor, especially with all the work you two are putting into renovating that room in the dungeon."

Hermione has decorated the room almost wholly in shades of grey and silver, with a blue ceiling that mimicked the color of the sky right before the world sank into darkness. Enchanted stars begin to glow whenever the ambient light drops and two spiral galaxies slowly approach one another from different corners. If Hermione has timed that spell correctly they'll intersect near the child's sixteenth birthday. 

Draco had dared her to create a spell more complex than the Quidditch players flying around the walls of his own childhood playroom. The players eternally cycled through the same game; she'd asked how long the time loop ran and when he'd said, "one week" she'd scoffed at him. "One week," she'd said. "You want me to do something more difficult than a measly one-week decoration spell? That's almost insulting."

She'd yet to tell him she'd worked a nova into the sky that should go off in six years or so, or that the stars actually rotated across the ceiling with the seasons. That might have been rubbing her victory in; she also thinks it might be more satisfying to say, casually, years from now, "Oh, that? Yes, I put that in back when we first decorated the room." After a childhood spent with people who hadn't understood - hadn't been capable of understanding - how far beyond them she was, she doesn't think she'll ever tire of Draco's ability to actually appreciate her work. It's not that he's effusive in his praise, because he's not. Still, that casually raised eyebrow combined with his small nod and smile mean more than any of Ron's exclamations of her brilliance ever could have because this man, this husband of hers, understands what she's done. It's nice, finally, to have an audience that gets it.

"Well," Hermione looks away from the sky she'd created and returns her attention to the aristocratic woman before her. "I was tortured in the Manor." Hermione has grown tired of this discussion, had, indeed, been tired of it for several months now. "By your sister. The place has what one might call bad memories for me."

Narcissa shrugs. "Bella was impulsive and sadistic; everyone has flaws. I'm sure, as time goes on, you'll find that some of your followers are less easy to control than others."

"And some need to be let off the leash now and then," Hermione nods. "Nevertheless, we like the flat and, really, this is only one baby. There's plenty of room."

"But there's no room for a live-in nanny," Narcissa objects. "How do you think you’ll be able to handle being Minister without child care help? You'll see. You'll be at the Manor within two months."

"Being in the City has a number of benefits,” Hermione demurs again. Again. Merlin, Narcissa is relentless in her quest to have her grandchild living in her own home. Now Hermione knows where Draco gets his annoying persistence. "It's easy to meet with people, easy to keep a sense of what's happening. And the work commute will be easier."

"Mmm. You’re a witch; commutes aren’t an issue for you." Narcissa admires the room again, quite certain she's right and that time will result in her getting what she wants. "I like the way you've done this. The constellation theme is delightful."

"It seemed fitting," Hermione says, thinking of the star names guide Narcissa had given her almost as soon as they’d told her about the pregnancy. She’d highlighted names she thought were especially lovely for children, and the most annoying thing about the entire situation was that Hermione found herself agreeing with the other woman’s choices. 

Draco walks in and brushes his lips inches from Narcissa’s cheek. "Mother," he smiles, then takes Hermione's hand and kisses her fingertips. "I've missed you, love. All plotting and no play these days, it seems."

"How goes the plotting?" Narcissa settles onto the pale grey settee and eyes both of the children standing before her. "I've enjoyed watching your inner circle slowly realize the truth about your absurd origin fable."

Draco frowns as Hermione lowers herself down to the matching chair. "It's true,” she says, rubbing a bit at her lower back, “though I blush to admit it. I'm not actually Nimue reborn."

"Clever girl,” Narcissa says. "Theo's implied adoption of you was a particularly lovely touch. You almost had me fooled for a while. Rather like that plain little Parkinson girl - she certainly doesn't resemble Eustacia, poor thing - I thought neither of you boys would really take a woman in who wasn't -." She hesitates and Hermione smiles blandly at her and waits for the woman to finish her sentence.

"And Blaise, of course,” Narcissa continues on. "Not a fool and more than a bit of a pureblood elitist, yet his devotion to you is unmistakable and clearly unfeigned. It's impressive, really, what you’ve done."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're getting at, mother," Draco says, still standing before both women. "I must be entering my dotage; you're going to have to be more explicit."

Narcissa ignores him. "Both Greengrass girls, unless I'm quite mistaken, have figured it out; their parents are tiresome, of course, but they are both delightful young women and, with careful handling, young Greg will be an excellent ally as well. I, of course, look forward to meeting my grandchild, newest Heir to the House of Malfoy and I would be most irate with anyone who would even consider suggesting that there had been any... dilution... of the bloodlines."

"Dilution?" Hermione makes a pretty moue and smoothes her hair. "Is it even possible to dilute blood and still have a living person?"

Narcissa and Hermione smile at one another, messages sent and received. 

. . . . . . . . . .

"Hi Harry," Luna lowers herself down into the seat at the bookshop, dropping the bag that has her about knitting to the ground and pulling out the blanket she's working on as she examines the man. He's thinner and deep shadows have settled under his eyes. He's holding a scarf Luna recognizes as one of Ginny's, twisting it between his fingers, stopping now and then to smell it.

"I can't remember things," he says without greeting her. "The way she'd smile at me in the morning, and roll her eyes at how messy my hair was, that I remember. But she always said something after that and it's gone. Just gone."

"Ginny?" Luna asks and when Harry nods she says, formulaically, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

She was, too, though more in the abstract way one's sad whenever one hears a former classmate has died, someone one hasn't seen or spoken to in years. It's the kind of idle sadness that makes you stop if you're reading the paper and happen to see an obituary, look up, and say to your spouse, "Did you hear so-and-so has died?" It's not the sharp pang she'd expected to feel, especially since she knows Hermione effectively arranged the woman's death. It's certainly not the aching emptiness Harry is clearly enduring. Ginny hadn’t been interested in her school friend after the war, not her weird, unfashionable friend who you simply couldn't take out and trust to not wander off to study the lintels instead of chatting up whatever sycophants Ginny had found. Whatever closeness they'd had had long since dissipated. Still, Luna thinks, I probably should care more that we killed her.

Luna worries, sometimes, that her interest in the revolution Hermione is so tidily engineering and the dark magics she's using to do it have drowned her own moral sense of right and wrong. I am, she thinks to herself, somewhat culpable for the destruction of this man, the savior of our world and once my kind-of friend, and I only feel minor sadness that he got in the way. I wonder what that says about me.

Of course, she'd never been mindlessly nice either and what Hermione is doing, even aside from the regime change Luna wholly supports, is so interesting, so very, very interesting, more interesting than she suspects Hermione even realizes and Luna’s fascination with the magic rather outweighs her sympathy for a couple who’d long ago abandoned her as too strange to bother with. Still, Harry does seem like a bit of an unfortunate casualty.

"I loved her," Harry says with simple dignity and Luna nods. "Life isn't fair," he adds.

"No," Luna agrees, letting her hands move in the knitting patterns she's become so comfortable with. 

"I like your ring," Harry says, after staring at her hands as they click the needles for a bit.

"Thank you." Luna stops to look at the band. Small sapphires and emeralds alternate; it feels remarkably showy to her but Blaise had pointed out that, in the normal run of things he'd have given a woman a rock big enough to put out someone's eye and she had to compromise and let him give her something that at least sparkled. "Blaise gave it to me."

"You're still with Zabini?" Harry looks like he'd just discovered the milk he'd put in his tea had gone off and Luna laughs.

"You could say that." She admires the ring again before returning to her knitting. 

"So," Harry sighs, "you're well and truly with the snakes now?"

"You're drawing lines and creating sides where none exist," Luna shakes her head. "You don't have to..."

"I do." Harry stops her. "Ron's my best mate and he says..."

"Ron's an arse." Luna has no intention of even pretending to like the youngest Weasley boy. "When people listen to him they end up in dark places."

"I'm already in a dark place," Harry says and this time Luna sighs.

"You don't have to stay there, though." She frowns and tries to think of a way to reach him. "Mourn your wife, Harry. Don't play the game right now. The rules aren't what you think; they aren't the same as when we were in school. "

"I always liked to break rules." He gives her a quick flash of the smile she remembered from school, a hint of the charming boy who'd shouldered burdens for them all and it’s enough to make her try, again, to save him.

"I'm asking you to stay away from Ron," she says, knowing it won't work. "Let all this go. Go away, go rest in France or Italy. You can't even see all the pieces, Harry. You can't win this."

"You're on their side," he accuses her.

"There are no sides, or there won't be tomorrow, or soon. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."

"You don't make any sense. You've never made any sense," Harry says bitterly. "Looney Luna."

Luna remembers, then, the moment she'd decided she liked Blaise as more than just a clever tongue attached to a pretty man. It had been when he'd shoved his wand - his actual wand, not a metaphorical wand though there'd been a great deal of shoving of that as well - into her neck and said he thought she was a threat. It had been the first time anyone, any man at least, had seen through the mists in which she tended to wander and realized she wasn't just dotty. Of course, she'd told him afterwards that if he ever did that again she'd emasculate him; it's one thing to be charmed that someone takes you seriously, quite another to encourage violence in a partner. The old taunt of 'Looney Luna' reminds her how much she really doesn't care for being dismissed. She can hear Blaise in her mind: _if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that she’s never random._

"Well," she says, packing up her knitting. "I guess I'll go back to playing my pungi. It was good to see you, Harry." She pauses, then adds, "Think about what I've said; consider it, please. If you can. You were, after all, born of woman. No prophecy for you this time."

Harry rolls his eyes at her as she walks away.

. . . . . . . . . . .

"Hermione Granger," Molly Weasley squints down at the woman, frowning at her transformation. Gone was the frizzy-haired girl who'd almost panted for approval; she doesn't know this sleek creature sitting here in the orphanage sorting the books.

"Molly," Hermione acknowledges the woman with the barest of nods. "It's Granger-Malfoy, actually, or simply Malfoy. I got married a few months ago. Maybe you heard."

Molly, feeling the brunt of the casual dismissal, stands for a few moments, looking down at this vixen, this harlot who'd abandoned Ron to a life of dissipation and then made the most ridiculous claims about his violence and her blood. Stupid little mudblood, Molly thinks, letting herself use the slur in the privacy of her own mind, look at you, dressed up like some pureblood aristocrat. It doesn't matter what you wear or who you whore yourself out to, you'll never get the smell of dirt off you.

Lady Malfoy, Molly thinks with a sneer, held what looked like a Muggle notebook in her lap and sat making a list of titles as she placed books into one of two piles. No real pureblood would ever use a Muggle notebook, such a pathetic giveaway of her filthy background. "You should pay attention to me, Hermione."

"Why?" Hermione continues flipping through one of the books, frowning at torn pages before putting it into the larger of her piles. "You haven't paid attention to me in years, not since Ron decided he preferred an endless stream of presumably paid companions to my company. I can't imagine what's suddenly so important you can't just send a note to my secretary."

"I know you killed Ginny," the older woman finally hisses.

Hermione looks up at that and says, "Oh, Molly. I know grief is a terrible thing, but I really don't think you should blame me for all your tragedies. Have you considered seeing a counselor?"

"I don't need a counselor, you bitch," Molly says, feeling goaded by the other woman’s obviously false sympathy. "I need you to pay."

At that Hermione stands up, brushing some of the dust off her otherwise immaculate black dress. Her smile chills and Molly takes several steps backwards, only to have Hermione close the distance between them, sauntering forward and putting herself back right at the edge of being too close. "Molly, I don't think you should go about threatening people. Your family is already in such disarray with both Fred and Ginny dead and Ron missing that I'd hate to see them lose time with you if you had to be taken into the Ministry for questioning."

"What do you mean, 'Ron missing'?"

"Oh, that's right," Hermione leans in close to Molly and whispers, "that hasn't happened yet."

Molly looks at her in horror and Hermione laughs. "Let me tell you a few things, Mrs. Molly Weasley. Your name is all over this institution; Kingsley may have diverted the money but you let him use this place to hide it, you, the well-known mother figure. How would you like daily reports in all the papers on how you live, compared to the way these children live? What do the Weasleys eat, while the orphans they vowed to care for suffer? How do the Weasleys dress, while the orphans go about in ratty Muggle cast-offs? How do the Weasleys play, while these children are lucky to have a single ball to kick around? Keep bothering me and that’s exactly what you’ll get. And the beautiful thing, Molly? The thing that makes it so sweet, so utterly perfect? Artistic, even? You did this to yourself. If you'd declined the honor of being on the Board none of this scandal would have attached to you. If you'd ensured these children had a decent environment, actually used the money allotted to this place to care for them? You'd be an untouchable public figure. But that's not what you did. You stole money from children to line your own, tasteless pocket. So, I'd go home if I were you, Molly, and I'd stop blaming other people for everything that goes wrong in my life. These are your own chickens coming home to roost."

"Ron and Harry are going to stop you," the woman whispers, almost hisses, though now unease has replaced the confident fury she’d felt walking into the orphanage’s playroom.

"Stop me from what?” Hermione steps back and looks pointedly around at the room, freshly painted thanks to her very own Knights but still institutional and barren. “Running for Minister? Having a baby? Volunteering to replenish this place's library? I doubt it. We'll be holding a public book collection at my next campaign event, taking donations of new children's books. Maybe you'd like to donate some?"

"Stop you from everything," Molly snaps, frustrated.

"Last I heard Harry could barely get out of bed. I doubt he's going to stop me from much of anything." Hermione cocks her head to the side and appears to be considering Harry’s plight. “I’ll ask Daphne to have some flowers sent over, express my concern for his unfortunate fate and all. 

"He's helping Ron; we're going to stop you!" Molly almost stomps her foot; she can’t believe how easily this frumpy little nobody of a trollop has reduced her, reduced Molly Weasley _née_ Prewett, to inarticulate sputtering. And how dare she threaten me, Molly thinks; threaten _me_ with the condition of this place. These kids have a roof over their heads and food on their table; who would expect anyone to do more for the spawn of the monsters who waged two wars?

"Well, I'll make a note of that,” Hermione says with bored courtesy. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to pulling out the worst of these books. We plan to have a table outside the ministry with these as an exhibit to illustrate the oversight issues while encouraging people to make a donation."

"You can't do that!" Molly exclaims.

"Oh, really?" Hermione settles back down into the child-sized seat at the table, brushing a fleck of peeling paint away. “I think the book drive will be very successful in so many ways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luna is quoting Macbeth: “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day / To the last syllable of recorded time, / And all our yesterdays have lighted fools / The way to dusty death.” V.v.
> 
>   
Luna refers to Macbeth again with the comment that Harry was born of a woman as Macbeth was told no man born of woman could defeat him. 
> 
>   
pungi = traditional instrument used in snake charming


	30. Chapter 30

George pulls out a chair at the family table. Even though he lives above the shop alone – painfully, horribly alone – he returns home to eat his mother’s cooking multiple times each week. After Ginny’s death, he’s started to come back almost daily; the funeral had left him numb and the need to surround himself with family, with friends, with things to do, anything to blot out the horrible silences has grown. He misses the little girl who’d tagged along, bothering him and – don’t think it. Going down that road lies madness.

He misses the brave woman who’d defied a monster. 

He even misses the broken alcoholic she’d been at the end.

He looks at Ron, sitting across the table. His little brother was as destroyed by the war as the rest of them. He finds it easier, however, to sympathize with Ginny’s drinking or Percy’s retreat into politics than Ron’s descent into debauchery, finds it hard to understand how the sibling who’d been so brave when it mattered so much had become a man who hit women, who blamed everyone else for everything.

Sometimes, George thinks, there isn’t a reason and there’s no one to blame. Bad things just happen. Here be monsters, as old maps said.

“I got,” he says, reaching for the pitcher of orange juice, “the most upsetting letter from McGonagall yesterday.”

“Oh?” Ron’s uninterested. George hopes – really hopes – that lack of interest doesn’t change.

“Apparently some ass sent little Æthel Nott a box of poisoned chocolates.” George huffs in disgust as he pours himself a glass of juice, spoons some eggs onto his plate, and eyes his brother. 

“Why would she contact you?” Ron sounds a trifle too casual. Just… fuck.

“Because the chocolates were originally purchased from my shop and adapted so that instead of causing mild vomiting the toxicity would be fatal.” George shakes his head and adds, “Some joke, huh? Never thought I’d sent a howler to a professor but that’s exactly what I did.”

“You sent her a howler?” Ron nearly chokes on his own eggs. “Why would you do that?”

George Weasley studies his younger brother and says, very calmly, “Because the idea that I would knowingly poison a child is despicable, and I wanted her to be very clear how I felt about that.”

Ron rolls his eyes, not impressed. “You nearly killed me half a dozen times as a child when you were mucking about with your tricks. When did you get so particular about your things and the damage they can cause?”

“I make jokes, Ron,” George says. “There’s a big difference between turning your brother purple for a day or two as a lark and deliberately trying to murder a little girl.” He eats in silence for a few minutes, feeling something die inside of him. “You know, Ron,” he sighs. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve seen people I loved slaughtered in front of me, we both have. Maybe I was careless before, but I’d hate to think someone would use that carelessness to justify using something I made to kill a person.”

Ron looks guilty, damn it. Just… how am I supposed to live in a world without Ginny, George wonders, or... don’t even think it. That way lies all the madnesses. George exercises the mental control that keeps him in one piece, has kept him in one piece since the war. Without… two people. With another brother trying to turn himself into a monster. Here be monsters. Here, here at this table, eating eggs.

“Ron,” George finally says, pulling himself out of his thoughts, “I were to find out you had something to do with Æthel Nott getting hurt…”

“Why do you care?” Ron says, his voice filled with a vile hint of the hatred he’s been nurturing. “She’s just a fucking Death Eater brat.”

“She’s an eleven-year-old girl with a pet cat and a father who adores her and an aunt who…”

“Hermione deserves whatever happens to her.”

“She was your friend,” George puts his fork down. “We all thought you two would get married and then you….” he stops. “Not that it matters. Even if the kid were _Voldemort’s_ daughter it wouldn’t make it acceptable to try to kill her. Ron. Whatever you’re doing, stop it. The chocolates you sent her – and don’t try to bloody well deny it, you’ve never been good at lying – were intercepted because our – my - products aren’t allowed at school and the tampering was discovered so no one got hurt; no harm done at this point. It’s not too late for you to turn around and come back from whatever journey you’re on.”

George watches his younger brother throw his napkin down and summon a house-elf to clear his plate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man says as he walks out of the room.

George puts his head down on his arms at the table and starts to cry. Here be monsters.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione and Daphne had set the table up near enough to the Ministry that the implied rebuke was obvious, though when someone asked her Daphne just laughed and said, "This is the spot we could get a permit for."

The bookstore right across the street had been a factor in their location, of course. That the bookstore owner was a quiet member of both the underground Blaise tracked and Marcus Flint's Knights of the Lady had absolutely played a role in the final location choice. Hermione's quiet loyalty to people who supported her wasn't going unnoticed; he would do a brisk children’s book business today.

"Replace a book," Hermione calls out to passers-by. 

The security for this little stunt had given Theo and Draco nightmares and headaches and resulted in both of them drinking heavily more than once but, for all the layers of wards and the careful staggering of their people around the street, it looked, to anyone walking by, like Lady Granger-Malfoy, leading candidate for Minister of Magic, was manning a charity table, fully accessible to the public, wholly unguarded.

Ron watches her, standing there with Daphne, from an alley, saying nothing, doing nothing, just noting the apparent laxness of her team's security. I can work with this, he thinks to himself. Probably best to get a sense of how they handled public speaking events, then get her at one of those, where there’d be the most impact. I want, he thinks, everyone to see her suffer the way she’s made everyone see me suffer.

"Take away one of the books from the Phoenix Orphanage and replace it with a new book," Daphne calls out as people walked by. They stop, those people, stop and look through the battered, abused, torn books. Most are aghast. 

"This is what those kids have to read?" One woman holds up a book, half the pages torn away, others stained. "This is trash."

"That's why we're out here, asking people to replace one of these books with a new or gently used one. Every book people donate today will go directly to the kids." Hermione grins encouragingly at the woman. "Let's get them reading."

"I really admire," a man says, swapping three books from the table for new ones from the nearby bookshop, "how you actually get down in the mud and do the work, how invested you are in ordinary people's lives."

"Well," Hermione smiles at the man, "Not to be crass, but I'd appreciate it if you remember that sentiment when it's time to vote."

"I will," he promises.

"Thank you," she looks pleased, sending the man her most engaging beam of approval. To be beamed at by Hermione Granger is no small thing, wasn't even before her little rabbit-blood bath, and the man spends the rest of the day in a happy daze.

Every book gets swapped, no security measures are tapped, and Hermione's reputation as good and virtuous is bolstered. "Again, you did it," Daphne says as they pack up the books and give the boxes to waiting members of the Knights of the Lady.

"Was there any doubt?" the Lady herself asks, leaning in to give George Weasley a hug as he takes a box from the table.

"With you?" Daphne snorts. "Never. Smartest member of the Golden Trio and our fair Lady." She looked guiltily at George, then. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize for not praising my brother," he mutters. "He's not done much that's praise-worthy lately."

. . . . . . . . .

The photographs of the memos with Kingsley Shacklebolt's name begin appearing in the papers, in the flyers sent to people’s homes. The few people who had defended the man ate proverbial crow as it became painfully, obviously clear that he had, indeed, personally approved fraud, personally approved theft, personally approved graft.

Percy Weasley read the investigative pieces as they were printed, each time terrified his own name would be displayed. Each time he saw that she'd kept her promise; he'd endorsed Hermione and she'd kept his name out of the scandal.

He thought about prison. He thought about the dirty politics the woman and her cadre of snakes were playing. He thought about how he knew she was going to install herself as some kind of absolute power. 

He thought about a seat on the Wizengamot and admitted to himself he didn't really care if she were queen as long as he wasn't in prison. That he thought she'd do an excellent job helped salve his conscience and made that little bit of self-awareness less galling.

He watched Ron, across the table when they both ate at what he still thought of as home. The man was smug about something; a kind of mean gladness lurked in the creases around his eyes when he smiled. George had stopped talking to their youngest brother. "He's become," the man had said when Percy asked him about it, cornered him in his own shop, "someone I don't want to know."

I need to tell the Lady, Percy thought, not even noticing he used her odd little title even in his thoughts some of the time. There's something off about Ron, more off than usual. 

He sent a note and got a polite acknowledgment back from Draco Malfoy, which left him worried, and frustrated that no one was taking his warning about Ron seriously. He'd have been less frustrated, if considerably more worried, if he'd heard the fight Draco and Hermione had upon receipt of his note.

"Percy and Ron have never been close," Hermione had insisted. "He's not likely to have any real insight into the man's plans, even assuming Ron is capable of making plans."

"We need to kill him now," Draco had actually thrown his glass across the room and the sound it made as it shattered had punctuated his vicious fury. "He's up to something, and the risk outweighs the benefits at this point. The election is solidly ours; the Order thoroughly discredited. He needs to go."

"There's no risk," Hermione had snapped back. "You just hate him."

"And you have a sentimental streak about him, despite everything, and that's a liability!"

"This is my show, Draco. Not yours."

But Percy didn't hear that fight, didn't know that his worried letter had moved him into Draco's 'loyal' category, or how very good a place that was to be. All he knew was that Ron, impulsive Ron with his simmering resentments, seemed far too happy about something and that the woman who was keeping him, keeping Percy Weasley, out of prison wasn't listening to warnings about his gitty sibling.

Maybe, he thought with a fission of hope, I'm wrong. He'd certainly been wrong about their financial shenanigans. George had hauled him into the orphanage one day, showed him the dirt-packed yard, the dearth of toys, the grim, institutional oppression the whole place exuded and he'd felt ashamed. I did this, he'd thought, I condoned this, and all for what? Risky investments that failed? So Ron, with his quick fists and his endless tarts, could play after the war? So I could be rich?

He didn't stop to ask himself exactly what he was condoning now in order to keep himself out of prison and, maybe, in a little bit of the power he liked so much. Instead, he paid off his guilt with a fine in the form of a donation to the orphanage, one so substantial George had looked at him, blinked, and confirmed the amount. "We did this," was all Percy had said. "We have to make it right."

He'd felt a little dirty at the respect he saw in George's face. He'd made the donation anyway without explaining any further.

He was stopped, with his brother, as they left. "Mr. Weasley," the reporter had said, and both brothers had turned. "Mr. Percy Weasley," she'd clarified and he'd said, "Yes?"

"Do you have any comment to make on the revelation that your immediate boss was hip-deep in the financial corruption scandals that are rocking our government?"

"I'm ashamed," Percy had said, honestly. 

"You didn't know?" the reporter had pressed.

"No." A much less honest response.

. . . . . . . . .

"I hate this." Ron stands next to Molly as she guides the impassive Harry to his bed. Even magical hospitals smelled, always, of a wretched combination of disinfectant, vomit, and institutional food and Ron could feel that scent soaking into his clothes and hair as Harry obediently sat on his bed in the ward. "I hate this," he repeats.

"I know." Molly pushes some of Harry's dark hair out of the man's eyes before turning to fuss with the personal items she'd spread out on his nightstand. Some tissues, some flowers. The Healer had recommended against a photograph of Ginny so she'd found one of Ron and Harry, arms slung around one another after a Quidditch victory and now she moves that photograph first in front of the flowers, then behind it, then in front of it again. "He's just so... I don't know what to do anymore." Molly looks at the man who hasn't spoken to them in days, who won’t eat unless someone spoon-feeds him. "The Healer thinks she can help, thinks talking to someone who specializes in things like this... and I guess there are some great new potions that have been developed in the last few years. There are a lot of reasons to hope, Ron. He won't be like ... this... forever."

Ron sits next to Harry on the bed, shifting himself and trying to find a place to put his feet. He isn't sure what to do with his hands and first, he clasps them in his lap, then pats his friend on the knee, before finally slipping them under his legs so he is sitting on them. "Get better, mate," he mutters. "I know you miss her, we all do but -." Ron almost chokes on his next words but maybe the brat would be what would pull his friend - his brother - back from where ever he'd gone. "Think about Alicia. Your daughter needs you. I'm sure she's getting bigger, gonna walk soon. Get out of here so you can be a father to your little girl, okay?"

"Leesha?" 

Molly's head snaps up at the first word the man had spoken in days. 

"Ginny?" Harry looks around. "Where's Ginny?"

"Ginny's dead, mate,” Ron gets out, swallowing back the lump that threatens to choke him. "You need to get better for Alicia. Your daughter. She needs you."

"Ginny's so mad about Leesha," Harry is shaking his head and Molly clenches her hands into fists, then, with careful self-control, releases them.

"Ginny," she says, "would have wanted you to do right by that girl, get her away from the monsters that have her now, brought her back to the Burrow so I could help you raise her." She swallows and then adds, "Ron's right, Harry. You have to get better for your daughter, you have to come back to us."

"Hermione won't let me have Leesha,” Harry shakes his head again. "Said she wouldn't. Overheard those two." He looks at Ron. "I can't do it anymore, Ron. Everything's gone now. Hermione took it all away, didn't she? I made her mad and she took it all away. Should have stood up for her, then none of this would have happened." 

"Don't worry about Hermione,” Ron stands up and rubs at his eyes before digging his hands deep into his pockets. "I'll take care of her. You just get better so you can... so you can raise your little girl."

"Okay." Harry looks around, his mouth a little open. "Ron?" 

"Yes, Harry?"

"Where am I?"

Ron turns away, struggling to control the sobs that threaten to shake out of him He wishes, sometimes, that he could just fall apart the way Harry has but, for whatever reason, he hasn’t, he can't.

It’s Molly who answers the man's confused question. "You're in St. Mungo's, Harry. You've been a little stressed lately and we brought you here so you could get better."

"Oh."

There's a long silent moment before the Healer bustles in, all efficiency and movement; she hands Harry some pajamas and orders him to get changed, tells the Weasleys to leave, visiting hours are posted and we encourage you to visit as often as you can, it seems to help people get better. A photo of his daughter? She tips her head to the side and considers before nodding, a staccato series of head bobs that make Ron tired. A photo of his daughter sounds like an excellent idea, might pull him back to the world. She's herding the Weasleys away from the bed, drawing the privacy curtain, when Harry speaks.

"Ron? You'll tell Ginny where I am, right?"

Ron pushes his lips together so hard it hurts before he says, "I will mate."

"And Ron?"

"Yes?" Ron braces himself for whatever heartbreaking request Harry will make next.

"You'll take care of Hermione, right? Make sure she doesn't keep me from Leesha, right?"

"I will," Ron vows. "I will."

. . . . . . . . . .

When Ron sees Neville on the street, holding a child by the hand while Hannah rummages through a giant bag she’s carrying, he’s startled but pleased. He’d thought they were still up north, doing whatever boring thing it was Neville did with plants. 

“Neville,” he gives the man a hug. If Hannah looks at him disapprovingly he pretends not to notice; he’s gotten a lot of that since Hermione’s little slur job in the paper had come out. Why anyone cares he likes the ladies - and the ladies like him right back, or did - is a mystery to him; jealous, is his best guess.

“Ron,” Neville smiles at him and, unlike Hannah, the smile reaches his eyes, crinkling up his face. “How good to see you.”

“I didn’t know you had moved back to the city,” Ron says, “let me take you out, get you a pint.”

Neville looks down at the little person holding his hand and grins. “I’d love to mate, but I think Dillan’s pretty much had it and needs to get home.”

“So?” Ron shrugs. “Leave him with Hannah and come out with me.”

Neville exchanges a quick look with Hannah. “I don’t think so; we’re off back to home. Too much disruption is confusing right now. It’s important to maintain routines.”

“The kid’s like, what, four? Five? Six? He should be used to Hannah by now,” Ron quips. Hannah’s expression darkens, and she scoops the undersized boy up and rests him on her hip where he nestles in and hides his face. 

“Yes,” Neville says with some patience, “but we just finalized the adoption yesterday, so he’s actually not quite used to either of us, for all that we’ve been visiting the orphanage for months now.”

“You took in one of Hermione’s Death Eater brats?” Ron looks incredulous. “Why would you do that? Just, you know, have a baby.”

“Ron,” Hannah hisses, speaking for the first time. “He’s right here. He can hear you, he’s not deaf, you know.”

“So?” Ron looks at her, looks at the child she’s holding and snorts. “He’s a Death Eater’s kid. Blood will out, Hannah. I hope you don’t live to regret this.”

“Well,” she mutters, “I’m certainly regretting running into you.” She looks at Neville. “Dillan and I will be back at the hotel getting our things together so we can go home.” 

He nods. “I’ll be right there.”

After she walks away he turns, angrily, to Ron. “What the fuck is wrong with you? That’s _my son_ you’re slandering. _Our son_. You have _no idea_ what Hannah has gone through. None. And you - ”

“He’s a fucking Death Eater,” Ron insists.

“Merlin.” Neville looks the other man up and down. “Blaise Zabini was right about you, what you’ve turned into.”

“Zabini? What the fuck, are you joining Hermione’s little gang of snakes too?”

“I’m not joining anything.” Neville seems flabbergasted he’s having this conversation. “But Blaise Zabini has been incredibly helpful in getting our adoption application handled and I am very grateful to the man. He and Luna took us out to dinner, Luna took time to take Hannah all over town to find everything Dillan needed we hadn’t thought about. They’re good people.” He pauses and shakes his head. “Ron, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“He’s a _Slytherin_!” Ron exclaims.

“Which, when we were fifteen might have been enough of an answer, but we’re not kids anymore.” Neville stares at him. “Grow up, Ron.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ron runs his hands through his hair and slumps. “I sound like a total arse don’t I?”

“You really do.” Neville’s glaring at him, clearly just holding himself back from walking away.

“It’s just… Harry’s in the nuthouse, Ginny’s dead, and I’m sure it’s all Hermione’s fault somehow and that whole orphanage of hers is just such a giant mess for my family. It’s kind of a sore spot but I don’t mean to be such a wanker about your new kid. I really am sorry.”

“Yeah.” Neville sighs, reaches out and awkwardly pats Ron on the arm. “Look, I really do have to get going. We want to get Dillan home while it’s light out; he’s afraid of the dark, still. He’s had a rough time. But, hey, why don’t you come on up in a month or two, once he gets settled, and we’ll show you around our little village. There’s a great local pub, an oak circle that may have been there in the days of Nimue, it’s so old.”

“Days of Merlin, you mean,” Ron says.

Neville shrugs. “Whatever.”


	31. Chapter 31

Theo fusses with the platform, with the microphone. Hermione hasn’t made a lot of speeches, preferring a more direct interaction with people via her small chats in bars, small chats that are reported almost verbatim in the papers but which still keep the feel of informal friendliness. This speech, however, is absolutely formal and he wants it to go smoothly. 

She has refused to wear high heels, even though Draco had quite literally gotten down on his knees in their flat to beg her to maintain the costuming. “I’m almost six months pregnant,” she’d snapped at him. “If I’m in heels I will both end up wanting to murder you before I’m done speaking and every woman in the audience will hate me.”

“Please,” he’d said, “just not some kind of sensible, ugly monstrosity.”

“Daphne found me some boots,” she’d said, “I’m sure her fashion sense will meet with your approval.”

“As long as you didn’t pick them out yourself,” he’d muttered as Theo had tried to make himself invisible, pressed back against the wall of the flat, wishing desperately to be elsewhere, “you have wretched taste in shoes.”

Hermione rarely drew lines in the proverbial sand with Draco about the clothes he wanted her to wear, or, well, really about anything, but this morning she had and now she stood, behind the thin curtain, waiting to make her appearance in what Theo had to admit were quite lovely, very very flat, boots.

Neither of them notices the extendable ear neatly stuck to the leg of a chair, or the cord leading from it to the man who has been under the stage since the morning, draped in a borrowed invisibility cloak.

“Are you ready,” Theo asks her, stopping his hovering over the perfectly arranged podium and coming back to hover over her instead.

She shrugs. “I suppose. It’s a political speech. It’s not going to convince anyone, it’s just a bit of theatre. People who already agree with us will nod sagely and people who think we’re conservative, blood purist arseholes will say it’s rhetorically vague and unconvincing. But, really, as long as I can keep from vivisecting Ron or Molly in public, we’ve already won. Now we’re just ticking off the expected boxes of ‘things politicians do’.”

“Still,” he says. “I worry about you. You’re carrying a lot right now.”

She smiles at him, a bit wanly. The herbal tea had failed to work that morning and she’s still feeling a bit weak. “It’ll be okay. Just another month until the election and we can relax a bit before moving into phase two. We’ll have a couple months of transition time, and I think I’ll let things coast a bit until the wee one here is born; Pansy’s working on the Wizengamot restructuring and once that’s done we can push through rescinding all the land seizures with no real hassle just from the position of Minister and parliament.” She pauses before adding, “I was going to ask you – can you have Æthel home from school to stand behind me, right next to you, when I graciously thank the nation for electing me Minister?”

“Not Astoria and her girl?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Too many people will see her as the tramp who took down Harry Potter. You and Æthel? You’re morally unambiguous, nothing but pure family values, with a lovely side dish of orphanage scandal.”

“My life is yours, Lady,” he says, the ritual words covering his mild unease at putting his daughter up on display that way, “and you know she’ll be thrilled to stand there.”

Daphne sticks her head around the curtain. “Showtime in five, people. Be ready.” She looks at Hermione’s feet. “Nice boots, by the way. I see you won that battle?”

“Thank you, five,” Theo says, trying to shoo her away.

“Of course I did,” Hermione smirks at her supplier of flat boots. “Though Draco did look very charming on his knees as he begged me to wear the heels.”

There’s a smothered sound from below the stage, perhaps a cough or a gasp. None of them seem to hear it over the sounds of the crowd, the sounds of their own feet shifting on the elevated platform.

Theo looks very pointedly away from the two women as they snicker over the visual of Draco Malfoy begging. “That’s bloody brilliant, Draco on his knees. I think I can die happy knowing that’s happened.” Daphne nudges Theo, ever so slightly maliciously, “Don’t you agree, Theo.”

He coughs into his hand and studies his own shoes. “The floor is really quite flat today, isn’t it?” he asks and both women laugh again before they return to the business of the hour.

“You’ve got a full house, Lady,” Daphne adds before finally letting herself be shooed. “Standing room only.”

“Nervous?” Theo asks, more than a little relieved at Daphne’s departure, and Hermione snorts. 

“Compared to being quizzed on my inherent worth as a human being, or probable lack thereof, by Narcissa Malfoy, this is a picnic. Just make sure no one shoots me from the crowd and I’ll be fine.”

Theo blanches and she laughs. “I’m _joking_. No one’s going to start shooting curses at us at a public event. It would be suicide.”

Theo starts to pace while Hermione stands, sipping from her water. Draco slips in, kisses her cheek, and, checking the time, murmurs, “Marcus is patrolling the edges of the crowd and several of his people are in place throughout. Daphne’s handling all the technical cues and Pansy’s got the reporters corralled and eating out of her hand. I’ll walk out and introduce you, then it’s all yours. There’s a portkey in your pocket; if anything goes wrong, activate it and it’ll take you back to our flat where Blaise is waiting to handle any crisis. If the portkey doesn’t work, or you’re too…”

“Stop.” Hermione puts her hand over his mouth. “We’ve been over this. It will be _fine_. This is a speech, not a battle. It’s significantly more likely that I’ll just hurl on stage thanks to Malfoy Junior than that we’ll have any kind of unrest. Please, Draco, would you relax.”

He looks at Theo, “You know what to do if she can’t activate her own portkey?”

“I do,” the man says grimly.

“You two are going to make me insane,” she mutters.

“You can’t be too prepared,” Draco checks the time again. “I’m about to go introduce you. Show me the portkey again so I know you have it.”

“Oh for the love of....” A quick turn out of her pocket shows the neatly packaged object and Draco nods, he and Theo exchange looks one more time and then he strides out onto the stage to polite applause and a handful of cheers.

Theo pulls Hermione into a quick, tight hug. “Love you, Sis,” he whispers. “No matter what. Go knock ‘em dead.”

Then Draco is wrapping up his introduction and Hermione walks out onto the stage and smiles at the audience. The clapping goes on for several minutes, along with spurts of cheering. Pansy had handed out signs to the first groups to come to the hall and people are waving placards reading ‘Minister Granger-Malfoy’ and ‘Time for a Change’. She lets the applause go on a few minutes before raising her hands to quiet the crowd and starting to speak

“_My people, I stand before you as a simple woman. My life, since I entered our world at the age of eleven, has been dedicated to the peaceful lives and welfare of our people. I blush to mention my work in the War because I know the sacrifices I made are ones any of you would have made had you been in my place. I know that I am young. I know that I am unproven in the halls of government. I know that my war record should not be the basis for your vote. Still, I humbly ask you to trust me to lead us going forward._

_“The Order of the Phoenix seized executive power after the War. They sought moral justification for this act by asserting that wizarding Britain, or its government, bore the guilt for the outbreak of the War._

_“This assertion was deliberately and objectively untrue. In consequence, however, these false accusations, made in the interest of a narrow group, have led to the severest oppression of our people. All the promises the Order has made have been, if not acts of intentional deception, than no less damnable illusions. Our post-War world has been agreeable to only the smallest fraction of our people and for the overwhelming majority, those people who earn their daily bread by honest work, it has been infinitely sad. Any objective comparison of the average outcome of the last few years with the promises the Order made is a crushing indictment of the architects responsible for this crime, unparalleled in our history.”_

That, Draco thinks, watching from behind the curtain, has to be the wordiest way ever to say ‘The Order got rich at your expense. Oh, and they lied about it.’ He’d honestly expected people’s eyes to glaze over during this part of the speech but, from what he can see, they’re all leaning forward, nodding in the exactly right places. Go figure; Hermione’s insistence that she use the stiff political wording had been on point. He owes her a galleon.

_“Our people have suffered deterioration in all sectors of life. The number of us who support the Order, in spite of its ruthless exploitation of executive power, has dwindled to a mere fraction of the entire nation._

_“My program for the reconstruction of our people and nation has been determined by the magnitude of the distress crippling our political, moral, and economic life.”_

Translation, Draco thinks, I’m going to change everything and insist all that I’m doing is because of the much-vilified Order. And you will not only believe me, you’ll cheer me the whole way. He wonders if the people about to cheer her vague suggestions about the need for reconstruction know she means ‘create a sham parliament that will rubber-stamp anything I do’? He doubts it.

_We have seen the results of Order corruption in the shameless embezzlement from their own orphanage. Money was funneled into the budget of the Order of the Phoenix Memorial Orphanage and instead of going to care for the children – our children – it was siphoned off, along with money that was supposed to subsidize food production to help the needy. That money – your money – was illegally invested in foreign muggle businesses at the specific behest of your current Minister. It can come as no great surprise to anyone that this unwise and risky investment went horribly awry and now that money is gone. Who will pay the price for this? Not the Order of the Phoenix, many of whom have lined their own pockets for years and who can be seen cavorting in the society pages, but the innocent children and the working poor._

Did I mention, Draco snorts to himself, that the government robbed you and that the Order is corrupt and you’re getting screwed financially? I did? Well, let me mention it again just in case you weren’t listening the first time.

_The welfare of our communities – as well as the existence of each individual - must be protected by the State. Therefore my government will not dissolve the current structures but will instead institute measures to guarantee the continuity of our culture from now on and for all time; the gap between the past and the future must be bridged in all sectors of our historical, economic, and cultural life. Our people have a rich history that we should honor even as we move into the future. _

_Friends. The choice is upon you. If you place your future in my hands I will honor that sacred trust, honor our history and our traditions, return us to a time of peace and prosperity where the powerful honor their obligations to the needy rather than pick the pockets of children. Now choose for yourselves between fealty and dishonor, between earned riches and debased poverty, between peace and war!_

And, Draco thinks, let’s end with some classic false dichotomies. Rhetoric is a beautiful thing.

_Thank you!_

The applause starts slowly then begins to fill the hall and then people are cheering and shrieking and stamping their feet and chanting her name. Stomp-stomp. “Granger-Malfoy.” Stomp-stomp. “Granger-Malfoy.”

Draco tries to remember if the foot-stamping thing was something they planned. He’s pretty sure it was, but it’s happening so seamlessly, so organically, he’s not quite sure.

He can see Pansy, organizing the reporters and photographers in their little cordoned off corner. He can see Percy Weasley, placed near the front so all those reporters can see him, clapping vigorously and cheering. He can see George Weasley – well, that’s a bit of a surprise – waving a sign with a discreet Nimue sigil in the corner. 

Merlin. They’re actually going to pull this thing off. Hermione Granger, Muggle-fucking-born, with an unspeakable slur carved in her arm attesting to that fact, is out there telling people she’s going to return them all to a more traditional way of life, meaning one with far more pure-blood privileges than recent years have seen, and the fools are cheering her for it. She’s planning to restore lands, restore vaults, stack the Wizengamot with her friends, and have herself crowned bloody queen and it’s all actually working. Draco can barely believe it; if someone had told him, that night he’d cornered Hermione and starting giving her a hard time that she wasn’t as famous as the other two member of that damned Golden trio, that they’d end up here, well, he would have had them remanded to St. Mungo’s for psychological evaluation. He looks over at Theo and the two men exchange thumbs up. “We did it,” Draco mouths, “We’re doing it,” and the other man just nods, looking as incredulous as he feels.

He keeps waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop but so far, other than some name-calling in the streets by a man they’ve totally discredited, everything just keeps rolling on. It can’t be this easy, Draco thinks to himself. Surely you can’t really overthrow a government just by telling people it’s a good idea. Surely the masses aren’t really stupid enough to believe everything they read.

It does, he admits, help that most people’s standards of living really have gone down since the war, and that the Order really did skim a hell of a lot of bonus funds for themselves. 

But, still. This seems… too easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione’s speech is heavily modeled on, to the point of replicating entire phrases, the beginning of one of the more important political speeches of the twentieth century. I'll cite it at the end of the entire fic.


	32. Chapter 32

The inner circle waits for the actual election returns in a small room in the back. The platform has been set up and all the Lady’s ‘core’ supporters are in the main hall of the rented building, milling around, enjoying the bar. 

Make it a _cash _bar, Pansy had insisted. If it’s open, she’d said, they’ll all be drunk fools by the time you make your victory speech. 

So Hermione’s mostly sober supporters move in little flocks around the room, mingling, eating the passed starters and buying their drinks; the space is filled with the Knights of the Lady, the underground, the people who’d come to hear her barroom talks as well as anyone who’d made a sizeable donation to either the Order of the Phoenix Memorial Orphanage or the Changeling Research Project, still highly secretive but something people ‘in the know’ liked to nod about to one another. The elder Mr. Parkinson holds court near a rose bush that Luna had charmed to be in eternal bloom, boring a variety of younger men who are all too polite to tell him to bugger off. The indomitable Eustacia had abandoned him as soon as they’d passed through the doorway and was herself now likewise surrounded by a younger generation. Her crowd, however, hangs on her every word; several young ladies, renowned for their perfect breeding and impeccable manners, begin to wonder, as they listen to her, whether a madcap sense of adventure might suit them more than knowing exactly what angle at which a proper lady held the pot while pouring out tea. 

“I thought,” one of them says, her voice embroidered with decorous hesitation, “pureblood manners meant being, well, pure. Quiet.”

Eustacia Parkinson snorts and holds her glass, imperiously waiting for someone, anyone, to take it and bring it back filled. “Don’t be an idiot, girl. You have youth, beauty, money and, as soon as that little water nymph we’re electing does her thing, power. You _make_ the rules. Make them be whatever you want. Do you _want_ to spend all your time simpering about missishly?”

“No,” the girl says, slowly.

“Then don’t.”

“Will she really return power to the old families,” another girl asks, looking up at the empty platform.

Eustacia laughs. “Do you think Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott are backing her because they’re noble boys with good hearts who just love her for her equally noble ideals? Don’t be silly; they’re in this for power the same way she is. The way we all are. She’s already got a list of who’s to sit on the reformed Wizengamot and it’s all the old families; not all pureblood of course, not enough of us left, but all the core families. And mostly,” she lowers her voice, “women.”

“Really?” One of the girls looks over at the group of men around the elder Lord Parkinson.

“Women,” Eustacia says firmly. “Not all, of course, but enough. More than enough.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione, at Draco’s suggestion, has shucked off her usual costume of a fitted black dress for something white and flowy.

“You know too much about fashion,” Daphne had said, eying the lines of the dress when they’d done a dry run of the ensemble back at Hermione’s old flat. 

“It’s not fashion,” Draco had drawled. “It’s power. I don’t want her to just look like a classically well-dressed dark witch – they all know she’s _that_ by now. I want her to evoke some pre-Raphelite image of the Lady of the Lake, rising in white purity from the waves with a sword above her head.”

“You don’t actually plan to make her hold a sword, do you?” Luna had asked from where she lounged on the bed, frowning at him. “Seems kind of … obvious.”

“Don’t be daft,” Draco had snapped back at the woman, a mark of how far their relationship had come that he could casually insult her mental stability and everyone knew he was just being a git, that he didn’t _really_ think she was round the bend. “She’s just going to have her wand holstered in a slightly more martial style than usual.”

“It’s pretty,” Hermione had admired the dress in the mirror of what had once been her bedroom. The dress hung in graceful folds around her abdomen. “And it’s about the most flattering maternity dress I think I’ve seen yet.”

“You look nice,” Luna had agreed, “which is funny because you aren’t.”

“Luna,” Blaise had hissed.

“What?” Luna had looked up at him, “I thought we were admitting she was evil. Are we not openly admitting that yet?”

“Evil seems harsh,” Daphne had said, settling next to Luna.

“Power hungry, manipulative blood-purist?” Theo had quipped. “Does that sound better?”

“Oh, you,” and Daphne had thrown a pillow at him.

Now they all wait, crowded into the too-small back room of their rented hall. Hermione stands to keep from wrinkling that pretty white dress, long enough to hide the sensible flats on her feet. Luna and Blaise had commandeered a tray from one of the catering staff and sit at the only table feeding one another carrots; this seems to make both of them giggle for reasons no one wants to explore in any detail. Everyone’s just trying to keep busy, to reassure themselves that victory is assured, that everything is going well. No one openly acknowledges the tension. Instead, they just simmer in it. Draco hovers while Hermione reviews her speech and Theo shows Æthel some simple dark charms she can practice to pass the time. “Swish and flick with a little jerk right there at the end,” he says. “That last little snap is what makes it work. Without that, you’ll just float the feather, not ignite it.”

“What’s your wand,” Luna turns away from Blaise, who’s left holding a carrot in the air. 

“Laurel wood,” Æthel holds the wand out towards Luna, who leans forward and plucks it from the girl’s fingers and turns it in her own hand. “Unicorn hair core.”

“Laurel?” Blaise lowers his root vegetable and squints at the wand. “Don’t see that much.”

“You do not want to know,” Theo mutters, “how many she had to try.” Daphne smothers a laugh and grins at Æthel who smiles back.

“Laurel?” Draco tweaks the wand out of Luna’s hand and hefts it himself. “Damn. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these before.”

“So many,” Theo looks at Hermione. “She had to try so many.”

Hermione laughs. “Draco, give the girl back her wand. And, Blaise, stop munching and go find out how much longer it’ll be before we can move along. I’m tired and I want to go to bed.”

“Your wish, Lady,” Blaise stands and with a dramatic bow leaves to go check on the progress of the election returns.

“I wish that nut would just concede,” Pansy mutters. “Make the speech, get the photos and we can all go home.”

“Have to party first,” Daphne shakes her head. 

“Astoria didn’t,” Pansy says with a grumble and Daphne looks at the other woman. 

“You have a baby to get you out of mingling? No? Then after the speech we go and make the masses happy. Then we have a few months of transition before Shaklebolt hands over those reins and then it’s showtime.”

“As much as it pains me to correct you,” Blaise sticks his head back in, “Gawain the Goofy is calling to concede and congratulate. It’s showtime now.”

“I’m not sure we should call him goofy for the Gawain thing,” Theo snorts. “I mean, _Nimue.”_

“Yeah,” Pansy says, “but Hermione doesn’t actually think she _is_ Nimue.”

“Well, she isn’t.” Luna says, sensibly, before adding, “Not yet.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Ron stays out of sight, hovering at the edge of the crowd draped in Harry’s invisibility cloak. Molly stays as hidden as she can, spending a lot of time in the bathroom. They’ve gone over the security plan Hermione’s snakes had used at her last speech and how it had all centered on portkeys to pull her out.

“All we have to do,” Ron had said, “is yank their keys and then they’ll be stranded here.” Now that he knows Hermione is, indeed, the leader of their little group he knows who to direct his attack towards; he’d almost believed she might be a pawn in the hands of the filthy Slytherins but not anymore. He’s not sure he’ll ever get the sound of her laughing about Draco being on his knees out of his head. She’d bloody well tamed Draco Malfoy, brought him to heel like some kind of a pet. That was something he’d never expected but at least it makes selecting a target easier. Hermione is the target. Hurt her, hurt all of them.

Molly had nodded at her son as he spoke. “She’s too pregnant to safely Apparate. Once we snag the portkeys, she’ll have to stand there and hear you out.”

“On the night of her big triumph.” Ron had paused. “Are you sure you can snag all the portkeys without any of them noticing?”

Molly had huffed in disgust at his lack of faith. “I’ve been pulling things out of boys' pockets without them knowing for more years than you’ve been alive. I’ll get the things, then get on home, let you do your speechifying.”

Now they both wait, trying to stay unnoticed. When all the miserable snakes and their little princess come out from the back, Ron thinks, when his mother has taken their portkeys and her partial knowledge of his plans and left, when the woman who was so cold he couldn’t even… but no need to think about that. His performance issue had been limited to her; it had been her fault, just like everything else that’s happened since. Her fault. Her fault. Her most grievous fault. Ginny was her fault. Astoria was her fault. The loss of income from the farm contracts, the orphanage scandal, Percy’s betrayal, and George’s sudden concern for Death Eater brats, all her fault. Hell, Russia was probably her fault.

Harry was her fault.

And now she was going to pay. 

When she comes center stage to announce her victory – he’s not enough of a fool to think she’s going to lose the election – that’s when he’ll confront her. That’s when he’ll make her suffer. He’ll make her suffer for Ginny. He’ll make her suffer for Harry.

He’ll make her suffer for himself.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione talks to Gawain – his actual name is Peter Miller and he’s a perfectly lovely man – and he offers her his congratulations on her victory.

“Just be careful who you lob that sword at, ya watery tart,” he says good-naturedly. “’Tis one thing, lass, to make yerself queenie – and don’t bother denyin’ it – but ‘tis quite another to found a whole dynasty. Ye’ll be breakin’ a few eggs, like as not, to mix up that omlette’ve yers but take some care, little one, that ya break the right ones at the right times.”

“Neither a borrower nor a lender be?” she says, trying to suppress her urge to roll her eyes at his torrent of advice.

“And ye can not then be false to any man, exactly lassie.” He pauses and says, “good luck to ya, Lady Malfoy.”

“Merlin,” Theo mutters after they break the connection. 

“Gawain,” Draco corrects and both men snicker.

“He seems delightful,” Hermione says with false cheer and Draco eyes her.

“Shall we invite him over for dinner, then, since he’s so delightful?”

“It’s as if you never want to have sex again,” she says, fussing with the way her wand sits on her hip and Theo snickers again. “I hate this holster, Draco. The way it hangs, it’s hard to pull the wand out smoothly.”

“As you continually remind me when I worry at you about the security, this is a public event – not even fully public – and you shouldn’t exactly need to worry about defending yourself.” He pulls her into a hug, pressing her hip to him, and nuzzles her. “Theo and I will be right there, Blaise is already in position back at the flat and Luna’s mingling so we know he’s actually paying attention and not, umm…”

“No need for details,” Theo mutters. “Spare me, please.”

“I walked in on them once,” Draco says under his breath, releasing Hermione and kneeling down to help her adjust the belt and holster for her wand. “It wasn’t pretty.”

Hermione smothers her laughter and struggles a little bit more to get her wand to sit comfortably. The belt drapes across her, crossing above and below her swollen abdomen and the way it hangs makes her look like she’d stepped out of a painting; pre-Raphelite he’d wanted and pre-Raphelite he’d gotten. “You look lovely,” Draco says, looking up at her, fingering the snake bracelet on her wrist. She still doesn’t take it off, he still feels his heart catch when he sees it. More, even, than her wedding ring that bracelet always seems like a symbol to him; a bit of you, she’d said so long ago, wrapped around me, keeping me safe.

“Thank you,” she tugs him up. “Are we ready to do this thing?”

“Bit by bit,” he says, “our plans advance. Every move takes us one step closer to the day you sit on that throne – “

“ – and you stand right behind me, whispering in my ear,” she smiles at him. 

“My queen,” he bows over her hand and she pulls him close and whispers in his ear. “My king.”

“Well,” Theo clears his throat, “if you two could stop cooing over your evil plans like a pair of broody chickens, we could all move along to the Lady’s declaration of electoral victory, party like the winners we are, and then get her out of this security nightmare.”

“The man has a point,” Hermione releases Draco. 

“And we could, maybe, celebrate later in privacy at home,” he raises his eyebrows and she smirks at him. 

“I like the way you think. Victory makes you - ”

“Merlin,” Theo mutters, cutting her off. “Hell is listening to my friend and my sister talk about their sex life.”

“Sorry,” Hermione flashes a smile at him. “Think of how much worse it could be.”

“I cannot imagine,” he shudders dramatically. “Or rather, I absolutely refuse to. Can we move on now? Daphne is watching Æthel and who knows what horrifying, girly things she’s teaching her.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The speech is fairly trite. Hermione thanks everyone. “Your hard work,” she says, “is why I’m standing here, ready to take on the mantle you’ve entrusted to me,” along with things like “excited to move forward” and “mandate for change.” She could have stood on that stage and uttered complete nonsense, though, and it wouldn’t have mattered. The crowd loves her. She’s their very own golden girl, their magical heritage standing in front of them, pureblooded - or maybe not, but does it matter - and the embodiment of their sense that things were better before, that the modern world has stripped them of rights and privileges and powers that are their right.

Ron looks for his mother and, when she gives him the ‘all clear’ sign and disappears he shoves the cloak in a pocket and begins to push his way to the front of the room. People grumble at his shoves but the crowd is good-natured and no one stops him from approaching the dais. Percy doesn’t see him, nor does George. He’s seen them, of course, and, while he’s dismissed them as traitorous gits, he’s nevertheless taken care to avoid them.

Of course, then he’s there, at the front, looking up at Hermione as she mouths her empty platitudes to the crowd. They see him then. They all see him.

“You’re a liar,” he calls up at her, “You’re a manipulative, lying whore. Telling these people you’re some kind of savior. You killed my sister!”

“Ron,” Hermione steps back and looks at him. This was not in the playbook for the evening and she’s making a mental note to find out who had okayed his entry and have words with them, and maybe a bit more than words; all the harassment she’s had to put up with from the boys about their security protocols and Ron Weasley gets in anyway. “I’m sorry about Ginny, I really am but…”

“Security,” Theo hisses at Daphne who nods and takes off into the crowd, signaling for the Aurors, who don’t react; Ron’s still a war hero, the best friend of the Boy Who Lived, and Hermione Granger-Malfoy, for all that she’s now the legitimate Minister-Elect, remains a little suspect to them. She’s the woman who ran _against_ their boss, against one of their own; she’s the woman who beat him and who questioned his morality and ethics openly throughout her campaign. The Aurors may be here as an official security force, a courtesy extended by the Ministry, but they clearly have no plans to move against Ron Weasley, not on behalf of Hermione.

Daphne doesn’t waste time arguing with them and gestures sharply to Marcus, who nods and motions to the Knights, all of whom start to work their way towards Ron.

“And you as good as murdered Harry! He’s not even there anymore,” Ron continues. “Lost inside his own head.”

“That’s hardly her fault,” someone calls out. 

“Your sister drank herself to death because her husband couldn’t keep his pants zipped,” a voice carries over the crowd.

“Get him out of here,” someone hisses and boos and catcalls begin to echo around Ron, along with a growing chant of “La-dy, La-dy.”

“Ron, you’re just embarrassing yourself. I think you should go,” Hermione says,

"You're nothing but a filthy mudblood," Ron finally shouts over the booing in flabbergasted frustration. This is not how it was supposed to go; people were supposed to listen to him, to turn on her. This was supposed to be his big moment! "You're no magical water fairy, no pureblood. You're nothing! You don't deserve to be Minister."

A low hiss rose from the crowd and some of Marcus' men start to converge on Ron but Hermione held up her hands and they pause. "Why are you doing this?" she asks, her voice a study in poise but also mild confusion. She pushes the sleeve up on her dress, the white fabric bunching up above her elbow and holds her arm out to the crowd, the scar clearly visible in the light. "A madwoman carved my blood status on my arm, Ron. Maybe you remember. Or maybe you don't; after all, you were hauled off to the cellars and I endured abuse alone, but let me assure you the experience of having a word cut into me has ensured I won't ever forget my status. I've never even tried to deny it."

There’s a slight muffled snort from Pansy and Ron looks at her with a sharp smile. "She knows," he snaps, pointing towards the woman. "She knows you claim to be a pureblood. She might even be stupid enough to believe it."

"Why does it matter?" Hermione still holds her arm out, photographers clicking pictures of the dramatic scene, the newly elected, very pregnant Minister, her husband at her side, her 'dear friend' Theodore Nott with his newly adopted daughter on her other side. The tableau was charming and it charmed, despite the man hurling invective at her from the floor. "I didn't run on blood status," Hermione lowers her arm and rests her hand on her swollen belly as she looks down at the furious ginger. "I ran on ideas: ideas for the future, ideas for our children. And, I think, " she looks out to the crowd, "I think our ideas won, didn't they?"

A cheer soars up from the crowd, and people start to stomp their feet again. "La -dy, La-dy, La-dy!"

That’s when Ron curses her. 

“_Terminetur graviditate_.”

Draco sees him start the curse a moment too late and the man next to him sees him start the curse a moment too late and the little girl on the platform sees him start the curse a moment too late. Æthel pulls out her brand new wand and, with reflexes Theo and Draco will talk about later, casts an immobilizing spell. The man standing next to Ron shoves him but, even so, Draco still stares in horror as the curse, driven only slightly off course by that shove, glances off Hermione's side and she staggers and gasps.

“The baby,” she whispers, her hand reaching down, hopelessly, to touch the spot on her abdomen the curse had ricocheted off before hitting a support beam.

The room becomes utterly silent.

"Get a healer," Draco screams into the sudden stillness as Hermione stumbles towards Theo who catches her, reaches into his pocket for the emergency portkey and finds nothing. Theo and Draco exchange glances and Draco immediately spins on his heel and turns his wand on Ron. A quick flash of green light, a quicker curse, and the man, already partially frozen by Æthel, crumbles to the ground, dead. "Somebody get her a fucking healer," Draco screams again, turning back towards Hermione and then, and only then, the room begins to move. The Lady’s Knights shift people towards the doors and form a phalanx around the platform, blocking the Aurors who now, too late, seem to be moving. A woman Apparates out then returns, a white-clad healer in tow. Photographers snap pictures of the scene, the terrible, terrifying scene.

“I love you,” Draco’s panting though the salt water running down his face, running into his mouth as he grabs her hands, as the impact of Ron’s curse begins to shudder through her body. “I love you, Hermione, stay with me. You can do it. Stay with us. With me. I love you. I love you I love you I love – .” It’s a chant, a prayer, a plea, and he repeats it over and over and over again.

Blood is soaking through that white dress, a slow, scarlet snake that starts high up her legs and winds down to her feet, coiling in a puddle around those comfortable, flat shoes she’d insisted on. Her breathing becomes shallow and her eyes begin to glaze as she sags in Theo's horrified arms, Ron's dead body is laid out below her on the floor like an offering. Like a sacrifice.

** _End of Book One_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was where I had originally planned to stop the story. But, even though I do still think this is a good stopping place, Book Two will begin after a brief Bluna Intermezzo. 


	33. Bluna Intermezzo

Luna Lovegood hadn’t expected Blaise to actually be being cleverly symbolic when he had given her back the thorns from her initial gift of roses. She had, after all, been being deliberately difficult when she gave the lot of them the flowers and played metaphorical games, so to have him, even possibly, get what she was doing was interesting.

Not many people interested her.

When they left, when he danced around the idea of whether she’d join him in bed with predictable pureblood misdirection, she’d rolled her eyes and pushed him up against the wall near where they’d been walking, kissed him until she’d felt him stiffen and groan against her. Merlin, she didn’t want to marry the man, he didn’t need to act like she was some fainting miss who would clutch her pearls at the idea of just going back to his place and fucking. He just interested her. Why did these pureblood boys always have to act like such hypocritical prudes, anyway? It was incredibly tiresome.

Still, despite his tedious and predictable concern that she would be offended by his barely hinted at suggestion, he’d turned out to be really, well, fabulous. Later Hermione would laugh and point out the man had quite a reputation as a playboy, so she’d hope he’d picked up some skills along the way. That first night, however, it had been a delightful surprise and afterwards, when she lay, sweaty and thoroughly sated across his bed, she’d smiled at him, a smile she couldn’t keep off her face, and said, “I think I like you. When can we do that again?”

He’d huffed out a laugh and looked at her, reached out a hand to brush hair off her face, and said, “You’re one of a kind.”

“Non-responsive,” she’d replied.

“No, that’s exactly what you aren’t,” he’d said, flopping next to her and tracing small circles on her thigh.

“Not me. You. You haven’t answered my question.”

“Whenever you want,” he’d said, pulling her against him, “But I think I need a nap first.”

She knew, of course, that he thought she was crazy. Just a tad off, was what most people said. At first, she hadn’t noticed people thought that. It was hard to stay focused on people when there was a whole world of magic to explore, then words and books and music and art, and when she finally turned her attention to people they’d already written her off as daft. At first, she hadn’t minded. Then she had.

“Does it bother you?” Hermione asked one day, as they sketched out flyer designs, planning out the best ways to visually communicate complex economic inequities. “That he thinks you’re…”

“Looney?”

“Well, yes.”

Luna had shrugged. “Most people do,” was all she’d said and Hermione had frowned at her. “You did, when we met.”

“Well, we weren’t having sex,” Hermione had pointed out. “It seems like it might be a bit weird to have sex with a man – or woman for that matter - who thought I was insane. Kind of disheartening to be that intimate with someone who misreads you so badly.”

“I don’t think Draco misreads you,” Luna had said as she fiddled with the layout in front of her. “He rather adores you.”

“The two aren’t mutually incompatible.”

Hermione did have a point, though, and as it became increasingly obvious that Blaise, despite the remarkable things he did to her body, didn’t trust her, Luna began to get more and more irritated by the whole situation. She knew, of course, that Theodore Nott didn’t trust her. She was Harry’s friend, in his eyes, even though neither Harry nor any member of his entourage had spoken to her in years. She was a member of the other side and therefore eternally tainted. His opinion wouldn’t have bothered her quite so much if she didn’t know perfectly well he’d asked Blaise to keep an eye on her. Having casual sex with an attractive man became less fun if that man thought he was stringing her along to make sure she didn’t betray their revolution.

She couldn’t decide if she were more annoyed that he didn’t simply ask her what she thought of their plans or amused that he thought he was so sneaky when he couldn’t lie to her at all.

Granted, she’d spent so much time studying people while they ignored her that she was, perhaps, better than most at reading body language. Still, the man prided himself on being cunning and he asked the most ham-handed questions. ‘Have you talked to Ginny lately?’ ‘I don’t suppose you ever see Ron anymore?’ It was like dealing with a teenager - and not even a clever one – who was trying to find out if you were leaving the house anytime soon so he could sneak a girl in. She’d started being as vague and giving as many leading answers as she could because, really, this could not be allowed to continue. Either he confronted her and they had it out or it was over. No sex, no matter how pretty the man, no matter how talented he was with his tongue, was worth putting up with this lack of trust.

Though she really would miss that tongue if it came down to that.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise wasn’t sure when the daft blonde had gotten so far under his skin. She was just so different from any girl he’d dealt with; most pureblood girls, especially given how bloody wealthy he was, were always angling for a ring and a commitment, but not this one. She’d pretty much shoved him into bed and climbed on top of him without even bothering to pretend it was anything other than a fun time. It was refreshing how little she seemed to care about what anyone thought.

And the sex was amazing. Blaise Zabini was no virgin, not even close; he’d shagged enough women, he thought, rather smugly, to know what he was talking about. Luna Lovegood was incredible, uninhibited and remarkably forthright. She was game for any suggestion, no matter how out there, and if she didn’t care for it, she’d just stop him - once quite literally mid-thrust - and say, “I don’t like this. Let’s try something else.” He wished he could share details – because, oh Merlin, the details he could share - but since Malfoy was dealing with a woman who had apparently gone full-on pureblood and was making him wait until the wedding night, he was out and, well, Theo didn’t even like girls, which made him not an especially appreciative audience for this subject, not even taking into account how much he distrusted Luna.

Blaise couldn’t even properly say she was crazy. He knew Theo thought she was utterly round the bend, while Draco was convinced she was some kind of mad spy sent by Harry and Ron, out to discover all their evil plans. She obviously wasn’t barmy, though. Sure, she seemed peculiar when you first met her but the more time he spent with her the more he realized she was totally sane. Brilliant, even. Odd, she was definitely odd, but it was hard to dislike odd when odd sometimes showed up at his flat with takeaway of his favorite dish under one arm and a Muggle sex manual under the other and the suggestion they work their way through the book and would he prefer to do it alphabetically or in the order the book presented the positions because she personally thought alphabetically would be more fun but compromise was good. It was hard to dislike odd when she finally agreed to stay the night and it turned out she made amazing scones, which she fed to him that morning, straddling him on the floor of the kitchen while reciting poetry. It was hard to dislike odd when she fell asleep on his couch while he researched old spells, one arm drooping down to the floor, the book she’d been reading still brushing against her fingertips. It was hard, in fact, not to adore her.

It was hard to remember he was supposed to be watching her not adoring her. He made half-hearted attempts to determine if she were a spy, and he admitted to himself she worried him. Puzzled him. She seemed to go from making sense to just nattering on about things he was fairly sure were made up and he wasn’t even sure if she believed them or just liked talking about them. She understood magic in a way that awed him, though. She could flip through an old book and find the thing he was looking for as if by instinct. She drew connections between ideas in ways that left him confused and dazzled, and, yet, whenever he took the time to work his slow and laborious way along the mental paths she skipped along he found that her reasoning was flawless. He found himself watching her, not even looking for some kind of proof that she was untrustworthy but just admiring the way she tipped her head to the side when she found an idea that intrigued her, anticipating how she’d glance up at him and grin before pouncing on him. He wanted… he wanted a lot of things and he was finding, the longer he spent with her, that fewer of them came out of her sex manual and more of them came from some romantic, gooey place he hadn’t even realized lived in his soul.

And with all that he still worried she was playing them. She hinted, she laughed, she talked in circles and he thought, “I have to do something about Luna” but kept putting it off because she’d go and smile at him again and he’d think, “Well, another day won’t hurt.”

Then she had tea with Harry Potter.

. . . . . . . . . .

Luna was disappointed in how conventional Harry had become. He seemed genuinely shocked both that she was having a sexual fling – though given the way Blaise had started to look at her when he thought she was absorbed in a book she suspected he was developing romantic feelings that confused him – and that she wasn’t interested in marriage.

Why would she want to get married? Pureblood marriage almost inevitably revolved around social posturing and children, neither of which she particularly liked.

Why must these men all be so obvious? Blaise was obvious. Harry was obvious. It was depressing. She wished, sometimes, she were sexually attracted to women, but she just wasn’t; she’d done some field research to confirm this and she was just stuck with men. Obvious, obvious men. She sighed as Harry shamelessly tried to get her to tell him what Hermione was doing. The urge to say, ‘Oh, she’s planning on overthrowing the government and I’m helping her’ just to see Harry do his horrified face thing did tickle the edge of her mind but she firmly repressed it. What made him think he could track her down after years of ignoring her, play on their old quasi-friendship to get her to betray a friend who actually appreciated her, all while making it, well, obvious that he was horrified she was having a perfectly happy life he didn’t happen to approve of? Strategic thinking had never been his forte.

Maybe this would, at least, push Blaise into confronting her. She’d thought the comment about how the woman he’d tortured, obliviated and dumped at St. Mungo’s had had her brain eaten by monsters would have done it but maybe she was being too subtle.

Men, sadly, didn’t do subtle. Not even her Blaise.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise bit back the string of obscenities bubbling in his mouth when he heard from the waitress that Luna – his Luna – had had tea with Harry Potter. Thank Merlin, he supposed, for the underground. He felt weirdly jealous and also, he decided, betrayed. Theo had been right. Just… god fucking dammit, Theo had been right. She was playing with them while she was happily off chatting with that bastard, that rotten Phoenix bastard, and he couldn’t trust her and he was not going to be upset about that. He’d been watching her, that was all, so however bruised he might be feeling it… he shook his head and clamped down on his feelings. Clamped down hard.

Theo looked grim, Draco looked worried, and they rounded her up and waited in Hermione’s flat. Luna didn’t even do them the courtesy of looking nervous, though she did ask him to please stop poking her quite so hard with his wand, a double entendre than made Theo cover up a snigger. Still, everything seemed fine until Hermione arrived and he realized how badly he’d miscalculated. Everything seemed if not fine then at least not really awful until Luna described their relationship as ‘meaningless sex’ and he realized, with a sharp pang, that she was right and he really didn’t want her to be. That, even if she weren’t right, he’d just kidnapped his girlfriend and, Merlin, that girlfriend was probably righteously furious and planning on never speaking to him again. He’d fucked it all up, and hadn’t even realized there was something to fuck up until it was too late.

And then she asked if they were still on for dinner and everything was okay. He guessed. It was okay, right?

. . . . . . . . . .

She led him into the bedroom, smirking at him over her shoulder and the silly, silly man smiled back at her. He was still smiling when she tied his hands to the headboard and why wouldn’t he be? They’d played so many games, after all. He smiled as she pulled off his shoes and socks, as she worked his pants down, as she left him bare to her touch. He was even still smiling, his eyes flickering with lust he could barely contain, as she slipped his wand away from him and set it across the room on the dresser. It was only when she straddled him and lowered herself down onto him so he barely entered her and the stopped that he inhaled and really looked at her. He tried to push himself up into her but she raised herself easily and prevented his awkward thrust.

“Did you ever ride horses as a boy?” She asked him, tipping her head up to look at the ceiling.

“I, uh, no,” he answered, his voice going up and making the answer into a question. “Not really.”

“I did.” Luna turned back to look at him and watched him watching her, confused but smart enough to follow along. “You develop really strong thighs from all that posting. Maybe you’ve noticed that before?”

He nodded, eyes trained on her.

“Which means,” she smiled as she balanced herself, “I can ride you like this for a really long time without strain. Or, more to the point, I can not ride you, just stay here with you barely inside me for as long as it pleases me to do so.”

Blaise gulped and, without even meaning to, tried to reach for his wand, feeling for the first time, as he pulled against the cords she’d used to tie him to his own bed, that he was in trouble.

“Tsk.” Luna shook her head. “You want me to untie you and leave? Because I can do that too, but if I leave, I’m afraid we won’t ever get to have the little chat we desperately need to have, the chat I’d really like to have your full attention for.”

“I’m listening.” Blaise swallowed again, wondering if letting a woman he’d been holding at wand point just hours earlier tie him up had been a really bad idea. She’d just been so… unconcerned… about the whole thing throughout dinner, talking about Welsh verbs and did he know anything about archetypal figures or elementals and maybe they should try that new curry place and now she’d taken his wand – his fucking wand – and he’d let her and he really hoped she wasn’t going to hurt him. “Please…” he whispered, as he looked up at her.

“Ask me to stop and I will,” she said, very seriously.

“Then you leave, right,” he searched her eyes. “And you don’t come back.”

“Not to your bed, no.” She lowered herself a tiny bit onto him and he shuddered. “Not to you.”

He closed his eyes and said, helplessly, “Stay. Please.”

“You do like begging, don’t you?” Without even opening his eyes he knew she’d cocked her head to the side, was regarding him with that bright, curious expression. “Do it again.”

“Please, Luna,” his voice was catching in his throat. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t… I should have… Please…”

“You do.” She sounded fascinated now, horribly distracted from whatever she’d been planning to talk to him about by the reactions she was pulling from him. Blaise could feel himself trying to push up into her again, a futile move as she easily moved up with him, denying him, and he began to whimper. “You really, really do.” He cursed his cock, his own reactions, her, everything in the whole bloody world, he’d promise her anything, beg as much as she wanted him to, for just one more inch…

“Still,” she was talking again, “let’s stay focused on how incredibly rude it was to shove your wand into my neck and take me hostage. Even though I’d been pushing for a confrontation, I admit I didn’t quite think you’d go that far.” She lowered herself down a fraction more and he gasped underneath her as she casually exhibited how very strong her thighs were by slipping just the top third of his cock in and out of her and he was going to kill her. As soon as he had his wand, as soon as she let him go, he was going to absolutely kill her for this, assuming he had any sanity left, which was – dear fucking Merlin – becoming less and less likely.

She stopped moving and he opened his eyes, “Luna, please,” he begged.

“I don’t think you’re paying attention to me,” she licked her lips and all he could think about was how much he wanted those lips on him right now.

“I am, I really am,” he muttered, “I really, really am.”

“What did I did I just say?” She was doing something now where she was rotating her hips and, oh fucking god, he was going to die. He wasn’t going to get a chance to kill her because he was going to die, right here, of sheer and utter frustration while tied up in his own bed.

“Rude?” He hazarded a guess and she nodded encouragingly. “It was, umm, very rude to take you hostage?” he pushed his hips up as hard as he could and she laughed.

“Naughty,” she grinned down at him. “But well done.”

“I get a reward?” he tried to summon up his most engaging, endearing expression, suspected he just looked desperate but, never mind, because the woman slid herself all the way down him and he exhaled with a sudden gasp feeling her around him and she held herself very still, smirking at him, then, in slow motion, pulled herself back up until he was barely in her again and he thought he might start to cry. “Please,” he whimpered and he could feel his cock twitch as he begged and she laughed again, a pleased, smug sound.

“The things one learns,” she murmured.

“Luna…”

“Let me get to the meat of the matter, as it were,” she said, sliding down a bit as he fought to pay attention to her words. “I quite like you. You’re smart, you’re attractive and you tend to not think I’m just loony - ”

“You’re not crazy,” he could hear himself babbling. “You might be evil, right now I’m pretty sure you’re evil, but you’re not…”

“Hush. Now is the time when you listen.”

“Do I get another reward if I listen?” As soon as the words came out of his mouth he cursed himself and, when she made a move as though she planned to completely remove herself from him he quickly stammered out, “I’ll hush. I’m listening.”

“Good boy.” She pushed herself down on him a little more and he thought that, yes, he was going to die. And then he was going to kill her. And then he was going to ride her and see how much she liked begging. And then he was absolutely going to get her to move in. And then he was going to – fuck. She was moving again and all he could think was an endless repetition of her name. Luna. Luna. Luna. Luna. Lu –

“As I was saying,” she stopped moving and tried really hard to pay attention to her words, not just stare at her mouth, which was a really wonderful mouth and which she had, historically, done some marvelous things with and wouldn’t it be great if she –

“…And if you do that again, or anything like it, I will castrate you. Are we totally clear?”

“Uh – no more hostage, castration?” He hoped he’d hit all the main points and they could move on, move being the operative word.

“Yes,” she slid down a little further. “And I think I’d quite like you to be a boyfriend, not a fuck toy. If that’s okay with you?”

“Anything you want,” he muttered, “just, for the love of everything, anything, all the things, please, Luna, fuck me.”

She did, then. And as he slipped into her, felt her around him, felt her stop teasing him but just move along him he realized he was pulling at the cords tying him to the bed again, straining to touch her, to grab her in some way, any way at all, and she just laughed at him again as she rode him, following a rhythm of her own, pushing herself into the same haze he was in. “Please,” he could hear himself though he wasn’t even sure when he’d started speaking. Just over and over again he was begging her and when he saw her bring herself to climax, using him, when he saw her gasp on top of him, felt her clench and spasm around him, he started pulling even harder at the bonds as he came into her without ever having even been allowed to touch her.

She untied him then, lay next to him on the bed, her hand stretched across his abdomen. “I’m not sure,” he said finally, “if that that was really the best ‘never do that again’ lesson you could have come up with. Seems more like I’d be tempted to take you hostage every other week if that’s what’s going to happen afterwards.”

“You won’t,” she snuggled into his side, “because next time I emasculate you.”

“I – “ he stopped, hesitated. “Move in, please.”

“I can do that,” she agreed and he began to smile.

“My turn?” he asked, rolling her over onto her back.

“Your turn for what?” she asked, licking her lips again as he began kissing down her side, slipping his tongue along every curve, every plane of her body.

“My turn to make you beg,” he whispered as he straddled her and she smiled – no, smoldered – up at him and everything really was okay, even though he’d fucked it all up somehow it had come out okay.

. . . . . . . . . .

Sometimes she watched him. He was so beautiful, sitting with his head bent down over texts, looking for things, reading. He’d reach up and impatiently push his tightly braided hair out of his eyes and then it would fall back down and he would shake it away. She started to catalog his little quirks, the way he turned in his sleep and flung one arm above his head, the way he reached over to touch her, running his hands along her skin when he first woke up, the way his nose crinkled when he smiled, when he looked at her.

She began to measure her days by him. Wake up with him, drink tea, write, translate, think, dream. Watch him. Learn him. Watch him learn her. Love him.

. . . . . . . . .

He didn’t know what to do. All the scripts he had for how to court were worthless. She didn’t care about jewelry, liked weeds from the side of the road as much as she liked hothouse flowers, openly disdained all the things about pureblood marriage every other girl seemed to want. She rolled her eyes at the idea of charity balls, giggled when he made noises about prestige, was so genuinely indifferent to what anyone else thought he was left only being able to offer himself and for a man raised with wealth and power and position that was… terrifying. Why, he wondered, watching her, would anyone want me? Want my money, yes. But me? Enough to marry me? When he’d heard her say, “Why would I want to be married?”

She liked him. He got to wake up with her, each day, see the way she stuck her tongue into her tea to see if were too sweet, got to watch her roam the wild, fascinating paths her mind meandered down. It would have to be enough; she didn’t want anything more. Take what you can, he told himself. Take what she’ll give you.

. . . . . . . . .

He knew Pansy was laughing at him. Whipped, she’d called him. How come, he wondered, everyone knew he was head over heels for the woman except for Luna herself?

. . . . . . . . . .

She started to think that maybe she should just be obvious and tell him, using words. She’d tried reading love poetry, she’d tried wearing things she knew he liked, she’d even tried things in the Sutra that were supposed to convey true love but had apparently only convinced him she was remarkably flexible.

Which, in all fairness, she was.

Still, by the time they went to Astoria’s ridiculously over the top wedding she was starting to give up. She tucked flowers into her hair as she got dressed for the absurd shindig; I love you too, they said. I want you. If this didn’t work she’d have to be boring and actually use words, which would disappoint her. She tended to like that Blaise was clever enough to not need her to spell everything out.

She tended to like him. Period.

. . . . . . . . . .

“I know,” he muttered, holding the ring out towards her, the ring she’d yet to take, the ring she was staring at with his flowers still clutched in one hand, “I know you aren’t a big fan of marriage but, Luna, I swear I don’t want to tie you down to some manor with babies and teas and social engagements and all that. I just want to make sure, when you wander off on your adventures that you remember to bring me along. I love you, Luna. Please…”

He trailed off. She was looking at the flowers. FUCK. What if the book had gotten the flower meanings wrong? It wasn’t like he knew anything about this stuff. For all he knew he’d just given her a bouquet that said, “scrub my floors, wench.”

“That ring is very shiny,” she said at last.

Crap. She didn’t like the ring. He’d tried to get something she would appreciate, something subtle and pretty. Merlin knew his own mother would have told him to take her shopping, let her pick the ring out herself but that hadn’t seemed very romantic. “I’m sorry,” he closed his hand around it. “I… I didn’t think you’d like some big, important stone. Maybe I misjudged. I’m – “

She cut him off. “It’s nice. Does it fit?”

“It should,” he held it out again, sitting on the palm of his hand and she laughed.

“I think you’re supposed to slide it on my hand yourself.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he muttered. “I’ve never done this before.” He picked up the ring, almost dropping it, and then slipped it over her finger. “Will you marry me, Luna?”

“I took the flowers,” she tipped her head at him and grinned.

“Some of us are slow,” he said feeling a little more confident now. “We do better with verbal confirmation. Humor me.”

She wrapped her arms around him then, the bouquet still in one hand and whispered in his ear, “I love you, Blaise Zabini. Of course, I’ll run away with you.”

Did you like the bouquet, he would ask later. Did I do it right? And Luna would wrap her arms around him and say, it was perfect. You were perfect. How, she’ll ask him, did this happen. Luck, he’ll say, kissing her. And magic.

Magic doesn’t work like that, she’ll protest.

Yes, he’ll say. Yes, it does.

. . . . . . . . . .

Gretna Green was… quaint. That was the best word Blaise could come up with. It reeked of quaintness, the kind of deliberate cutesy shops and landscaping people hauled out when they were trying to separate tourists from their money.

“Well,” Luna looked around. ‘This is… twee.”

“Oh thank all the gods,” Blaise muttered. “I was afraid you…”

“It’s hilarious,” Luna said. “But I don’t think they meant it to be.”

“I believe,” Blaise consulted his parchment, “we are going to Ye Olde Blacksmythe Shoppe to be married.”

“Seriously?” Luna tweaked the paper out of his hand, and then started to giggle. “Well, I need to go to the hotel first. I have a wedding dress to put on.”

“You bought a wedding dress?” Blaise felt a sudden quiver of fear. “I didn’t think to…”

“I just wanted a dress.” Luna leaned forward and kissed him. “I like clothes. No need for you to change.”

. . . . . . . . .

Blaise spun her around once they were back in the safety of their hotel room after their wedding ceremony. "The blacksmith," Luna giggled, "that was inspired."

"I think," he said with a grimace, "you're confusing the words 'inspired' and 'misconceived.'"

"Quite possibly," she admitted. "Still, the carrots?"

"I'm going to laugh about that until I die," he admitted.

"Thus, inspired," she said with a smug nod.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her, her white dress slightly smudged from the too-historically-accurate blacksmith's shop. 'Shoppe'. "The white surprised me," he said, admiring her. "I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to see it as a symbol of innocence, though, or as some light wave thing with all colors blended into a unified whole."

"Yes," she said, then, "I love you, you know."

She came up to him, pressed herself into him and he burrowed his face into the stiff white satin of her surprisingly traditional dress. "Merlin, Luna. You're such a gift. I still can't believe you are real."

"People get on me for the nargles," she murmured, reaching behind herself to tug on the zipper partially keeping her in the dress, "and you don't even believe your wife exists."

"I was being dramatic," he helped her tug the dress down over her shoulders and towards her waist. "It was a turn of speech."

"And nargles aren't?"

"Sometimes you just amaze me," he said, lowering his mouth to the white lace brassiere she had under that wedding dress and running his tongue over the rough fabric.

"Only sometimes?" She kicked off her shoes and writhed a little bit, pressing herself against his warm mouth. "I must be losing my - "

He assumed she meant losing her touch but she had apparently lost her train of thought as well because she squeaked rather than finishing her sentence. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fingers he'd slipped inside her knickers. Based on textural analysis he suspected they matched the brassiere but decided, watching her squirm under his touch, that he wouldn't be averse to a visual confirmation.

"I like this dress," he said, pulling his hand and mouth both away from her while fumbling with the fastenings, "but I think it might look even nicer off."

She turned so he could undo the ridiculously complicated series of hooks and eyes that worked in tandem with the zipper - he suspected this wedding dress had been designed by someone with a twisted sense of humor - and she said to him, "You have no appreciation for fashion."

He unhooked and unwrapped and spun her out of the concoction and smiled. She had worn a matching set, and quite a nice one too. "Right now," he breathed as she pushed the discarded dress out of her way with one foot and he pulled her back against him, "I have a growing appreciation for fashion."

"Growing, you say?" She pushed him backwards and he moved up the bed until he was near the head and she was tugging off his clothes. "That sounds like something that could stand some research. The effect of fashion appreciation on the average male."

"Average?!" He propped himself up on one elbow and stared in mock dismay at the beautiful woman lowering her head to him. "You think I'm merely average?"

"Maybe," she mumbled, her mouth full, "somewhat more than average." Then she didn't talk for a bit, which was good as he wouldn't have been capable of following her conversation anyway.

"Luna," he finally groaned and, with an act of will pushed her away, tugged away those lacy knickers and pulled himself on top of her. "May I?" he asked, hovering above her.

"Only if you want to live," she gasped as he lowered his mouth back to her breast and began, through that white lace, to flick his tongue over and around her nipple.

"Your wish," he muttered, sitting up and pulling her ankles up to his shoulders and pushing himself into her, "my command." She squeaked again, then, adjusting herself began to match his rhythm and, when he recognized from the shift in her panting that she was close, he stopped and said, "Is now when I make you ask nicely?" even as he withdrew from her and, before she could actually kill him, slid down and lowered his face to her and, licking, sucking, thrusting that tongue against her held her hips as she arched against him, body shaking in his hands and at his touch.

She exhaled heavily as he lay there, still aching for her but watching her gather herself back up from what he'd done to her, how he'd shattered her. "More," she finally said. "In me. Now."

He obliged her, thrust deeply into her even as she dragged his face down to hers, kissed him deeply, tasting herself in his mouth. Again and again he pushed into her until he felt her convulse and spasm around him, until her nails clutched at his back, surely leaving trails of blood. Only then did he let himself go, only then did he lose himself in her as she had lost herself in him. Only then did he collapse against her, feeling her body laid out under his, sweaty, sticky, beloved.

After he rolled over to his side, after he stared, glassy-eyed, at her blonde hair for a few minutes, he finally said, "You are amazing, Mrs. ... umm." He paused. "What's your name now, anyway?"

"Luna," she said, obviously amused.

"I meant your last name."

“Does it matter?” She closed her eyes and he sighed.

“People will ask and I’d like to have an answer. Hermione hyphenated – “

“I bet Draco had a spasm when she told him she was going to do that.”

“- and I don’t care what you do, it’s your name, just tell me.”

“I like Zabini,” she said after a bit, after he thought she’d fallen asleep. “Can I be Lady Zabini?”

“I’d be honored,” he whispered, then, more prosaically, “Could we get under the covers, though, milady? I’m starting to get chilled.”

“’s too late to get cold feet,” she said as they tucked under the blankets. “You can’t back out now. It’s consummated and everything.”

“Plus, there’s the carrots.”

“Indeed,” and with a final quiet giggle Luna Zabini snuggled against his side and they sank down into sleep as darkness overtook the world outside.


	34. Book Two

**HERE BEGINS BOOK TWO**

Draco sat in the hospital. He didn’t even speak to the nurses who tried to get him to leave; Theodore ran interference, pointed out that the man was the husband of the most powerful woman in their world and if he wanted to be there, he was going to be there. He never raised his voice, never threatened, but, somehow, everyone knew the Lady’s key supporters would kill anyone who tried to pry her husband away from her side.

When she finally opened her eyes she looked at Draco and all she said was, “The baby?”

He shook his head and she began to cry, still, silent, tears. Her hand tightened on his but other than that there was no other outward reaction to the confirmation she’d dreaded. Finally he said, “The funeral will be in a week.”

“How can we have a funeral,” she asked with no tone whatsoever in her voice. “He hadn’t even been born yet.”

“He was our son, and he was murdered, and he will have a funeral,” Draco said, equally flatly and she nodded as she lay there.

“You’re lucky”, the Healer had said. “She’s lucky. You’ll be able to have other children. That curse, so late in pregnancy?” She’d shaken her head. “If it hadn’t been knocked off course, well, she probably wouldn’t have survived but even if she had there’s no way she would have been able to get pregnant again.”

“What was the curse,” Draco had asked.

“It’s,” the woman had rubbed her forehead and sighed. “It’s a standard pregnancy termination spell. You just aren’t supposed to do it on anyone that far along. She almost bled out standing on that platform.”

“I know,” Draco had said. “I know.”

Now he held her hand and looked down at her, so fragile lying there in the bed. People were just so fragile. One little spell, one standard little spell, and she’d almost died. All their security plans had gone awry, their portkeys mysteriously missing; she was so very fragile. “I love you,” he said again. 

A small smile ghosted across her face before fading away. “Still?” she asked and he tightened his grip on her hand.

“I was so afraid,” he whispered. “So afraid you were gone. You were so pale, and all that blood, and no one was coming and you were fading right in front of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. “

“Hard,” she whispered, closing her eyes, “to plan an insurrection without your figurehead.”

“Fuck the insurrection,” he tugged on her hand until she opened her eyes again. “I don’t give a flying fuck about the fucking insurrection, not without you.” He looked at her, willing her to listen to him. “You’re my favorite, you know.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she closed her eyes again but looked, at least in some small way, reassured.

“Just did,” he murmured. “Sleep, love. I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

. . . . . . . . . .

"I'm so sorry." Hermione wasn’t even looking at him. She had her head turned to look across the room at the distant wall, and Draco stared at her, confused and afraid. "This is my fault," she continued on. "If I'd listened to you, listened to any of you, I would have let you kill him months ago and this would never have happened." She paused and then said again. "It’s my fault. You shouldn’t even be able to sit here with me, you shouldn’t even… you'll never be able to forgive me. Never. Never never never never - "

He cut her off. "This was not your fault," he hissed and she turned her head to look at him, lines of tears painted down her otherwise nearly impassive face. She’d shut herself up somewhere and was lost deep inside her own head. "Fuck, Hermione, if I'd had the slightest idea he'd do something this..." he looked at her. "I would have killed him without permission and just let you do with me what you wanted afterwards. I thought… he’ll verbally attack her, he’ll hurt her with words, he knows exactly how to do that. Maybe shove her in the street again; hit her. I wanted to kill him just for that. This… who would have thought he’d do this?”

He struggled to control himself; she needed him now and if he started to break down she'd blame herself for that too. "Not your fault," he finally whispered. 

"He's dead?" she asked.

'Ron?" Draco confirmed and when she nodded he said, "too fast, but yes."

"You were right." Her eyes were darker than he'd seen them before and she’d lost weight in the hospital – not just the pregnancy weight but more, a lot more. Now the planes of her face were sharper, more defined and she almost looked like a different woman. "I let myself be hobbled by sentimentality."

"He was your friend," Draco said, watching her wander paths in her mind, paths that were surely cold and dark and cruel. He's always loved this side of her, this woman who could encourage her attack dogs to torture a spy with only an admonition to not get blood on her floors, this woman who’d threatened to make her enemies drink from the skulls of their fallen comrades. Until now, though, this woman's been nothing more than a meteor shooting through the sky that was his beloved. Now, for at least as long as this supernova of her rage and grief burns, the whole of that sky will be this other woman, this brilliant, dangerous woman.

"I let myself be hobbled," she repeated. "In all of our plans the only good thing I tried to do was protect Ron and Harry."

He hated how bitter she sounded.

“They were your friends,” he said again. “For years. You loved them once; you lived through a war with them, survived because of them. No one would ever fault you for - ”

“I would. I do,” she said. “I fault myself. I blame myself for this, for letting them live. You told me to kill them. Theo told me to kill them. _Blaise_ told me to kill them but would I listen?” She shook her head. 

“This is not your fault,” Draco said again, the words low and harsh. “Do not _ever_ say or suggest or think that it was. You did _nothing_ to make this happen. _Nothing_.”

"Let it be known," she said to him, her voice equally low, "I will never again permit any attempt to be kind to get in my way. Get in our way. Never again. No kindness. No mercy. Not for anyone outside our circle. Never."

He nodded and pulled her to him, across the bed, even though the Healer had warned him against rough movements. She nearly threw herself into his arms as soon as he touched her and started to sob, heartbroken gasps, and the dark, angry woman was gone and a devastated mother back in her place. "Just tell me what you want, sweetheart, and I'll do it. Always and forever."

"Make sure the room in the basement at the Manor is ready," she finally whispered against his chest. 

"Ron's already dead," he protested, worried she was losing her grip on reality. "As much as I'd like to, I can't torture him for the next twenty years."

She pulled her face away from his chest and, as he wiped the tears from her cheeks she smiled at him. "Harry's still alive," she said, "and how much do you want to bet he knew what Ron was planning? I think it would behoove us, at the very least, to ask him.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione smiled at Æthel, who tiptoed towards her across the hospital room. “I understand,” she said, “you have quite a fast draw with that wand of yours, favorite niece of mine.”

Æthel scuffed the floor with her foot and then said, so fast she could barely be understood, “I’m so, so sorry, Aunt ‘Mione. If I’d known a better spell I could have stopped him, not just kinda froze him up.”

Hermione reached her hand out to the girl and tugged her down so she was sitting on the edge of the bed. “You did great. Better than any little girl should ever be expected to do. And if you hadn’t frozen him he might have gotten away so you be proud, okay?”

“I’m still sorry,” the girl muttered and Hermione smoothed her hair away.

“You tell me all about school, all right? Then I’ll show you a spell you might like. It’s pretty simple but you probably shouldn’t let any of your professors know you know it.” 

….

Draco and Theo sat in the visitors' room while Æthel was in Hermione’s room. The plastic chairs were molded in a shape guaranteed to be uncomfortable for everyone and had been made in garish colors that utterly failed to brighten up the room. “Where did they even get these?” Theo muttered.

“Stole them from some Muggle hell, obviously,” Draco shifted in his. 

“We should have killed him,” Theo said, staring at his feet, at the cheerful posters on the wall reminding people of the importance of good oral hygiene, at anything but at Draco. “Months and months ago. We should have killed him.”

“I know,” Draco had a pamphlet on birth control charms in his hands that he was steadily ripping into smaller and smaller pieces, without even seeming to be aware of his actions. “But who would have thought…”

“Never, I would never have thought he could do that,” Theo agreed. Lines had been crossed, lines everyone knew you didn’t cross. Boundaries had been shattered. Voldemort had crossed them, yes, but he’d been a monster. “I still can’t believe it and I was right there.”

“He died too quickly,” Draco said. “Too quickly. He was supposed to suffer. We have a room in the Manor, set up to keep someone healthy for months and months. She was going to give him to me for our anniversary, let me do what I wanted.”

“I’m so sorry,” Theo said. “Just… so sorry.”

“Where were the portkeys?” Draco demanded, a question he’d asked himself over and over again. “We were supposed to be able to pull her out of there, not be standing, waiting for a Healer.”

“I don’t know,” Theo shook his head. “They were there at every security cross-check, there right before we walked her onto that stage.”

“How would he even know the arrangements, much less be able to get them out of our bloody pockets?” He brushed the tiny bits of paper off his lap and stood up and started to pace across the clean institutional floor. “How did he get that invisibility cloak?”

“I bet Harry could answer that,” Theo said, a slight questioning look on his face. “I suggest we ask him.”

“I think we need to wait for Hermione to do that,” Draco shook his head. “She wants to have words with him herself.”

“Molly Weasley, too,” Theo muttered.

“Yeah.” Draco paused and then said, “She’s going to be okay, Theo. They keep telling me that. They tell me how _lucky_ we are. So lucky. But she’s just lying there, you know?”

Theo nodded, then lowered his head to his hands and sat on the bright green plastic chair, shaking with barely contained sobs. 

Draco said, out of the blue, “Æthel has fairly amazing reflexes.”

“I know,” Theo said, his voice uneven but mostly under control again.

“We should watch her,” Draco added. “She’s a natural duelist. Get her some private tutoring or something.”

Theo nodded.

“Hermione might have died if she hadn’t…”

“Don’t even say it.” Theo’s voice was hoarse. 

“It’s true.”

“I know.”

. . . . . . . . .

Narcissa sat in her deceptively inviting solarium and waited for the other woman to arrive. The sun lit the aged brick floor and mosses peeked up through cracks in the herringbone pattern. From here you could see one of the main gardens, its paths wandering between patches of seemingly wild perennials and under the deep shade of oaks. Narcissa loved her garden; when the Manor had been built peasants – as near to slaves as had made no difference – had died putting in all the beautiful trees and meticulous stonework. For years she had liked to think that their sacrifice had contributed to the garden’s beauty, to its resilience. 

Blood sacrifice did things. You could _do things_ if you were willing to end a human life. You could make a garden beautiful. You could make a Horcrux and with it immortality. You could ward a child, protecting him from death and mischance. 

Bathe yourself in human blood, though, and the problem was that what happened was not always predictable.

She was startled from her reverie by the servant walking in to announce Pansy Parkinson. And so, Narcissa thought, we begin this dance.

“Pansy,” she said, “how good of you to come. Thank you.”

Pansy had never really cared for Narcissa Malfoy. The dowager had a fierce resolve that had weathered her husband’s support of a madman, her only son’s plunge into war, and, finally, the death of that beloved husband in prison. A hawkish nose sat on her harsh face, and her black hair was pulled back into an unflattering but faultlessly chic chignon. She radiated power and Pansy was under no delusion that her invitation to join the matron for tea was anything other than a near royal command and she resented it.

“It’s always a delight to see you, Mrs. Malfoy, Lady Malfoy,” she said, settling down across the small iron table, brushing a flake of the peeling white paint from her place. 

“Old things,” Narcissa Malfoy said, watching her gesture. “They seem worn, perhaps, but they sustain you when newer ones fail.”

Pansy smiled, trained into courtesy and graciousness from childhood. “How are you doing,” she asked. “It’s been such a shock, so awful. I’m still stunned myself.”

“It’s terrible, of course.” Narcissa signaled for an elf to bring them some tea and macaroons. “But that’s not what I brought you here to discuss. When Hermione has, well, I don’t want to say ended mourning because she’ll wear black gloves, figuratively speaking, for the rest of her life, but when she has returned to work we need to be able to present her with some of her projects completed, or at least ready for review.”

Narissa picked up the pot the elf had delivered and smoothly poured a stream of steaming tea into Pansy’s cup. The younger witch noted, with some irritation, that the pot was older than the table and probably priceless. “I understand,” Narcissa was continuing on, “that Hermione had asked you to assemble a list of the members for her revised Wizengamot.”

Pansy picked up her cup. “Yes,” she said, feeling cautious. 

“Let’s go over your progress on that, shall we?” Narcissa pulled out a scroll of her own and said, “Do you have anyone pegged for the Abbott seat?”

“Well, there’s Hannah, of course, but she’s a half-blood.” Pansy made a face.

“She married Longbottom, right?” Narcissa wrote _Hannah Abbott nee Longbottom_ on her scroll. “Their children will be near enough to pureblood for the modern world.”

“They can’t have children,” Pansy shook her head. “Too many curses during that last year at Hogwarts, courtesy of the Carrows. She’s sterile. They adopted a little boy from the Orphanage. Dillan or Daniel or something.”

“Even better,” Narcissa looked at Pansy. “Those children are mostly the offspring of deceased members of the last insurrection movement, yes?”

“Death Eaters’ kids, yes,” said Pansy.

“And so pureblooded,” Narcissa said with a self-satisfied smile. 

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Pansy pulled her own paperwork out of the bag she’d brought with her and wrote _Hannah Abbott_ on it. “But wouldn’t little Daniel-Dillan be Neville’s heir? Because he’s the only one we’ve got for the Longbottom seat.”

“So we encourage them to adopt another. Only children can be so lonely and, having spent so much time in a group home environment, I’m sure this child will be particularly happy to have a sibling.” Narcissa shrugged. “They are… inclined towards us, yes?”

Pansy nodded. “Blaise helped them expedite their adoption application and he and Luna kept them company when they were here in the big, bad city. They’re not exactly… they don’t know about… things. But they – “

“Good enough,” Narcissa said, then leaned back and studied the other woman. “Pansy, I know you’re quite fastidious but I do think you might want to reconsider some of your views on blood purity; times have changed and, like it or not, we need to live in the modern world or, perhaps, to return to a much older one before this obsession with blood status consumed so many lives. Hannah Abbott is the primary heir to an old and prestigious line, however much she may be a half-blood.”

Pansy pinched her lips together and wrinkled her nose as she shook her head. “Never. I’ll die an old maid first.”

“And you might,” Narcissa said calmly from her seat, the sunlight streaming in behind her and making it hard for Pansy to make out the woman’s face, “if you don’t decide that blood status isn’t the end-all and be all of a person’s worth. But, more to my point, I think you’re going to have a hard time over the next few years if you don’t adjust to being able to work with a wider range of people.”

“Blood purity _matters_,” Pansy insisted. “It’s the old way of doing things, it’s the right way of doing things.”

Narcissa just shrugged and said, “Well, Abbott’s taken care of. Who do you have for Avery?”

. . . . . . . . . .

Daphne opened the door to her flat and Theo walked in. He glanced around; it was small and dark, with scars marking the wood floors and bricks that wandered up the walls and around blobby lumps of concrete towards the support beams that crisscrossed the ceiling.

“Cozy,” was all he said.

“That’s what the real estate agent said,” she replied with a sigh. “But anything’s better than living at home. And it’s not that bad. The kitchen gets lovely morning light.”

Theo looked across the room to the kitchen, which, along with that morning light also had apparently been the victim of an unfortunate seventies renovation that no one had done anything with since. “I’ve never actually seen avocado green counters,” he commented. “I almost want to marry you just to take you away from all of this.”

“I thought you were – “

“The flat is just that bad,” he grinned at her, then the smile eroded off his face. “Æthel’s back up at school; I’d like to say that means she’s safe but apparently our favorite murderer sent her a box of poisoned candy and dear _dear_ McGonagall didn’t bother to tell me.”

Daphne frowned, then opened a brown cabinet door set under some shelves and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Well,” she said, “ I was wondering whether to offer you tea or alcohol but…”

“Definitely alcohol.” Theo settled into a seat and threw his feet up on a round, leather ottoman. “Daphne, we have a problem with the Ministry.”

“I know,” she handed him the glass. “The Aurors. They didn’t move to intercept Ron; if they had…”

“And they support Shacklebolt. Unreservedly.”

“Whom we _did_ beat in a fair election.”

“An interesting use of the word ‘fair’ but okay,” Theo sighed and took a drink. “I don’t know what’s going to play out but I’m moderately concerned it won’t be a totally smooth transition of power.”

“Understatement suits you. Time to research more dark magic?” Daphne sat down in front of him on the floor and he began idly working at a knot on her shoulder with the hand not holding his glass.

“And talk to Marcus.” Theo sighed as Daphne made an “mmm” ing sound under his hand. “We may need more Knights.”

“Not a bad thing to have in reserve in any case,” she agreed. “Do you plan to handle upping recruitment or spell research?”

“Flip for it?” he asked and she laughed before she slouched back against his seat and deflated. 

“I thought this would be the easy stage,” she said, gulping ungracefully from her own tumbler. “And instead it’s – “

“Blood.” Theo stared down into his own glass. “It’s blood.”

“I’m glad Æthel wasn’t hurt,” Daphne said, her voice very quiet. “I really like your daughter.” 

“Me too,” Theo murmured.

. . . . . . . . .

Blaise had started drinking as soon as he’d heard Hermione had been attacked and had managed to stay at least a little drunk since that time. Luna had just watched him. “Who _does_ that?” he’d asked over and over again. “Who attacks a child?”

“Voldemort did,” Luna had said. “Unsuccessfully.”

“We’re fucked, aren’t we?” he finally asked her when he heard from Theo that Hermione had regained consciousness, when he began to sober up.

“Blood sacrifice,” she said. “And the turtles go all the way down.”

“I don’t even want to know what that means,” he muttered.

“Nimue,” was all Luna said. “It means Nimue.”


	35. Chapter 35

“I’m glad you feel better,” Luna said. “Though I’m sure you still feel terrible. Maybe actually you feel worse because now you’re conscious.”

Hermione smiled as Draco shuffled his feet in the doorway. 

“I’d offer to kill him for you,” Luna continued, “as that seems to be the accepted thing to say. I’m not sure if it’s a kind of banal social thing with no meaning like ‘how are you’, ‘I’m fine’ or whether it’s meant to be an actual offer but, either way, I’d be comfortable saying it except he’s already dead and I’m really not sure how I’d go about killing him again.” She sat down in the chair next to Hermione’s bed. “Blaise tells me that Theo told him that you’re going to be discharged today so even if you’re feeling subjectively worse it would seem, from a health care perspective, you’re better. I’m quite glad you didn’t die, by the way. I was worried when you were bleeding on that platform. Still am, really.”

“I’m going to go say hello to Harry before I leave,” Hermione said when there was a pause in Luna’s verbal stream and Luna nodded. 

“Convenient with him right here,” she agreed. “Though you might want to be sure you don’t leave any marks. People might notice, though, of course, what people don’t notice can be fairly amazing.”

Draco shuffled again and Luna turned to look at him. “Oh, really, like I don’t know. ‘Massacre them all’ and all that.” She looked back at Hermione and patted the bed. “But, if you must, wait for the right season.”

“I will,” Hermione smiled at the girl at her side. “And probably not all. Am I allowed to acknowledge the ring?”

Luna looked at it. “Pretty isn’t it. I don’t recommend Gretna Green, though. It was awfully precious, emphasis on the awful.”

“Ever fixed mark, though?”

“I do love him,” Luna agreed. “And we’re both at your side, you know. No matter what.”

“I know.” Hermione paused, then added, “Tempests are coming.”

“They do that,” Luna said. “And then they pass and the sun comes out again.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry lay in the bed in St. Mungo’s, numb and almost unresponsive. Hermione settled next to him, took his hand in hers. The nurse smiled at them. “It’s good for him to have friends visit,” she said. “Nice of you to come down and see him before you check out.” 

“It’s good to see you, Harry,” Hermione patted him on the hand. 

“Please,” he whispered. “Make it better.”

“Oh,” she shifted in the seat, pulled her skirt down. “I don’t think so.” There’s a pause while she waited for the nurse to wander off, further away. “You never were a very good friend to me, Harry. I was for you, certainly. I risked my life for you over and over again but you, I’m not sure you noticed that I existed outside your own need for my research help. And, of course, the Ron incident.” She brushed some imaginary lint off her skirt. “You shouldn’t have accepted that. Theo wouldn’t, you know.” She leaned in towards him. “If Draco were to hit me, Theo would have to be physically restrained from killing him, and they’ve been friends since they were toddlers. Blaise too, I suspect.”

She sat back up and looked at him. “It’s a shame, really, that you didn’t accept my offer – my plea – to make things up with Draco. I was trying to protect you, not that you deserved it but I was trying. I would have kept you safe. And you threw that back in my face.” She sighed, melodramatically. “Now, well, I’ve taken your career away, taken your wife away, and your best friend is dead.” She leaned in again. “Beg me, Harry. Beg me to fix things.”

“Please,” he whispered again. “Hermione…”

She tips her head to the side and looks at him. “No.” Her voice got so cold then. “Ron killed my baby, Harry. Killed him. He did it on purpose. That’s why he’s dead. And you had better not have had anything to do with his attack on me because Ron died quickly, so very, very quickly, but we won’t make that same mistake with you, not if you were involved. “

She stood up. “I’m leaving now, going home. Going to my son’s funeral. I’ll be talking to Molly Weasley, sweet Harry, and you’ll be checking yourself out and coming back to the Manor so we can ask you a few questions. I hope I like the answers.”

. . . . . . . .

Awkward silences filled the air at dinner at the Burrow. “Pass the rice, please,” George said and Arthur slid the bowl across the table. Molly asked, “do you want more chicken?” and George shook his head. Forks clinked against plates and Percy reached for the bottle of wine. When he set the bottle down the clunk as it brushed against a bowl of roasted beets and the sound made everyone glance up at him before they returned to cutting chicken into small pieces. 

“You were there,” Molly said at last. “When that Draco Malfoy cursed Ron.”

George and Percy both looked at her.

“I was there,” George said slowly, “when my youngest brother cursed his former friend and caused her to miscarry her child and almost bleed to death herself, yes.”

“They could have... they didn’t have to…”

“Didn’t have to what?” Percy said, his voice tight and controlled. “Defend themselves? Against a man who’d made it clear he had no real compunction about shooting off dangerous curses? Or did you mean retaliate? I suppose.” He took another, too quick, swallow of wine and began to cough.

“They could have just… no one needed to kill Ron,” Molly snapped. “He just wanted to confront her about Harry. To _talk_ to her. About Ginny. She killed Ginny; she’s a _monster_.” There was a pause and then she said, again, “He was already frozen, the Aurors told me. No one needed to hurt him. And no one’s even talking about prosecuting Malfoy. No one!”

“He was barely half-frozen by a child’s spell which I wouldn’t exactly call disarmed; why not give him a chance to free himself, get off another shot,” George muttered under the sound of Percy’s coughing. “That would have been a brilliant idea.”

“Ron would never hurt a child,” Molly said, slamming her knife down and glaring at her two sons.

“But he did,” Percy said, glaring back. “_Terminetur graviditate_ isn’t exactly ambiguous, and it’s the not the kind of spell he’d just know. He had to look that one up; he did research, mum. He researched how to best hurt her. He did it _on purpose_. For all I know, he was trying to kill her too. He almost did.” He stopped and for a moment they all listened to the sound of his rapid breathing before he added, “I loved him too, mum, he was my brother.” He swallowed hard and then said, again, “I loved him too.”

Silence settled over them again until Arthur said, “How’s your shop doing, George.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The funeral was private, no reporters, no photographers, no propaganda. Hermione sat with stiff formality at the gravesite, Draco at her side. Neither of them looked at anyone else, neither of them looked at each other. She didn’t move throughout the service save at one moment when she reached her hand out to Draco and he took it.

Narcissa had handled the arrangements and everything was immaculate and flawless and perfect and horrible. Close friends sat in a grim circle under a tent that had been erected to keep off rain that threatened to fall but never did. There was almost no family. Andromeda Tonks née Black stood behind the seated guests but Hermione hadn’t even notified her parents. 

When Hermione stood, at the end, to drop a clod of dirt into the open grave she didn’t even flinch as the thunk hit the tiny, symbolic coffin. She just wiped her hand across her thigh, leaving a smear of brown on the otherwise immaculate black dress, a smear she didn’t acknowledge through the whole of the reception at the Manor. She stood, thanking people for coming. She thanked Narcissa for all her help. She thanked Andromeda. She thanked and thanked and thanked until everyone left and then she began throwing the wine glasses at the wall, one at a time, in silent, futile rage.

When she’d shattered every glass she turned to Draco, who’d stood behind her and watched her, and said, her voice as calm as water on a day when no air moves, when there isn’t even the tiniest ripple, that voice as glass that revealed nothing but just reflected back the world, “Show me the room in the basement. Show me where we’ll be keeping Harry once you imperius him for me, once he brings himself here for us.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Neville slid the paper across the table to Hannah, who read the story. “I don’t understand,” she said. “He was one of the good guys.”

“I don’t know if there are good guys anymore,” Neville said, watching Dillan out the window as the boy chased a practice snitch on his broom.

“There’s you,” Hannah said, softly. 

. . . . . . . . . .

"Theo," Pansy frowned at her friend, one of her oldest friends, a man she trusted. He looked up at her. She wasn't sure he'd eaten anything more than convenience foods people had placed in his hands since the night Ron had cursed Hermione, though he'd meticulously ensured that Æthel had good food and enough sleep before he took her back to school. He's a better father than I would have thought, Pansy considered, looking at him. "Theo," she said again and he sighed.

"What is it, Pansy?"

"Hermione's a pureblood, right?"

He looked back down. "Why do you give a shit, Pansy? She's barely out of critical condition, she just buried her son. She's emotionally shaky as hell. Who cares who her parents were?"

"Blood status matters," she insisted, looking at him. 

"No, it fucking well doesn't," he said, without looking up. "Why are you even asking?"

"Because... Ron," she stammered. "He knew her so well, knew her so long."

"You'd take Ron Weasley's word for anything?" Theo looked disgusted. 

"You haven't answered the question," Pansy pushed and Theo stood up to walk away.

"That's because I'm not going to dignify it with an answer, Pans. Find someone else to humor your paranoia."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione sat in their flat, the door to the nursery closed and spell-locked shut. She knew she should do something, should get up maybe, have some tea. Go for a walk. She knew she should talk to Pansy about the Wizengamot. She should talk to Draco about the changelings. She should do a lot of things but she sat and watched the light move across the floor and then it was dark again and she hadn’t done any of them.

‘You’re being irresponsible’, she would think to herself. Then, ‘I’ll do it later.’

Draco came and went, watched her with his grey eyes. She didn’t pay attention, not really. “Anemic, maybe?” she heard him say, “After all that blood loss.” But she didn’t pay attention. It was hard to care about anything. If she felt… if she felt it might be bad. She wasn’t sure what she’d do when she started to feel again.

She suspected once she started to feel again a lot of people would regret a lot of things.

Like Molly Weasley.

She realized she could feel about her.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Molly.”

Molly Weasley turned around in her kitchen to see Hermione Granger, of all people, standing there, slim again, flanked by three of her wretched snakes.

“How did you get in.” Molly looked behind the group towards her door, sure she had put the wards up, sure it had been locked.

“Did you really think you could keep me out?” Hermione was pulling off a pair of gloves, handing them off to her right where one of her minions took them from her. “It’s as if you don’t even understand how magic works, and you a Prewett.”

“But there were wards,” Molly protested again, “you can’t have gotten in.”

“This is fatiguing,” one of her men stated, the one with the pale skin and dark hair, the one Molly recognized, belatedly, as Theodore Nott. “She’s just insisting on things that are obviously false. You aren’t going to learn anything useful from her; I say we kill her and be done with it.”

“We talked about this,” Hermione was still watching her with steady eyes, eyes that were so cold Molly wondered if the woman were even sane. “This is a research trip only, Theo. Other trips may have other purposes. You can play later if you must.”

“So research,” another one of the men stated. 

“How did you get in,” Molly asked again, looking helplessly from one furious, terrifying figure to the next.

“I opened the door,” Hermione said, “and I walked in. We need, Molly Weasley, to have a little chat, you and I. I find myself insatiably curious how much you knew about Ron’s little plan. Did you know he planned to kill our son, or was that as much of a surprise to you as it was to me?”

“But there were wards,” Molly repeated and Hermione laughed, actually laughed.

“Did you never wonder, you incredibly stupid bitch, how Lily Potter’s death managed to protect Harry all those years? Did you never ask yourself what, exactly, she tapped into, unwittingly I’m sure, that held off one of the darkest wizards the world has ever known? Did you ever ask yourself what would have happened if Riddle had just killed the baby and left the mother standing there, tapped into those depths? Because maybe you should. Maybe you should ask yourself that _right now_.”

“Hermione,” Molly would have recognized the detached, condescending drawl of Draco Malfoy even without the pale hair identifying the man. “Please control your urge to be pedantic and just find out what the bitch knew.”

“Of course, love. My apologies.” Hermione still hadn’t stopped staring at her and Molly began, for the first time, to be afraid. “Blaise, would you be so good as to restrain her for me?”

“Can’t do your own dirty work?” Molly asked, desperately trying to stop whatever this woman was planning, to shame her into stopping. She had to stop, this couldn’t be happening. Not to her.

“Oh, it’s more that if I didn’t let them hurt you, at least a little, they’d whinge for days. It’s tedious, as I’m sure you know. Mothering Ron, well, I’d think you’d be more than familiar with tedious whinging.” Hermione smiled at her as the man Molly knew must be Blaise Zabini grabbed her and forced her to her knees, grabbing her hair and twisting her head up so she couldn’t move it and there she was, kneeling and staring up at the woman in front of her. 

“Whinging seems like a harsh description,” she heard Theodore Nott say.

“Nagging, maybe?” Hermione asked and all three men laughed. “Generally, Molly dearest, I try to make this process not hurt but then, generally, I also rather like the person I’m reading. This isn’t the case for you so you might find this a trifle unpleasant.”

And then it was like a cold wind blew through her brain. It wasn’t painful, some distant, analytical part of her brain thought. It was just awful. She was stripped down and totally exposed to a woman who didn’t bother to hide her loathing, her utter contempt for everything that Molly Weasley was. Every part of her was examined and most of it was dismissed with indifference as unimportant, uninteresting. Molly had never felt as small as she did while Hermione Granger – Hermione Malfoy – read her life and found it lacking. 

“She didn’t know,” the woman finally announced, and the man holding her let her go and Molly sagged to the floor.

“Really?” She wasn’t even sure which of the men asked that. Malfoy, maybe?

“It was only because she didn’t care to find out, though” Hermione continued. “She chose to not probe too deeply into what Ron said he was going to do. She could have, she had a suspicion his plans were violent. She certainly wanted me dead and was happy enough for him to do that. But the baby? She didn’t know about that. Other things… other things she knew. She’s the answer to the portkey question, certainly.”

“I still say we kill her.” Molly thought that sounded like Theodore Nott again. “Let me kill her.”

“Get me some tea.” That was Hermione and there was a pause and then she said again, “Get up, you worthless bitch, and be a decent hostess and get me some tea.”

Molly felt someone kick her, not especially gently, and then she was hauled to her feet. The look the man - Blaise Zabini she thought - gave her was filled with disgust. “Filthy blood traitor,” he hissed, “get the Lady some tea.” He shoved her towards the counter and Molly, her hands shaking, went to work heating water, pulling out a mug; she could sense the three wands pointed at her back and knew if she turned and tried to defend herself, to attack that bitch, she’d be dead before she got a single curse off. 

“Draco.” Molly could hear Hermione, could hear that fucking bitch, that tramp she’d taken in every summer, that filthy whore who’d just wrung her mind out like a dishrag, speaking to her equally vile husband. “Would you be so kind as to get me a chair?”

When Molly turned, the tea in her hand to give to her ‘guest’, the woman was seated, poised and calm. “Thank you,” she said in a horrible parody of graciousness as she took the mug.

Molly stood in her own kitchen while the four of them stared at her. “You have ten minutes,” Hermione said, and Molly felt confused. “Nothing permanent.”

The three men all smiled and Molly felt, suddenly, as the cornered mouse must feel when it realizes the cat isn’t hungry.

“Should I silence her?” asked Theodore Nott and Hermione laughed.

“No,” she said, and Molly began to realize that being very afraid was probably an under-reaction to her situation. “I want to hear her scream.”

Ten minutes can last a very long time and Hermione Malfoy got her wish.

When it was done, when Molly Weasley lay, unable to even sob, face pressed into her floor she heard Hermione say, “Shall we?”

Then, “_Obliviate._”

Molly stood up and wondered why she had been lying on the floor. I must have fainted, she thought, and, indeed, she felt really awful. I must be getting sick, she thought, I should probably go have a lie-down. She pulled herself up; her pot had almost boiled dry. I must have been passed out for a long time, she thought, and why is there a chair sitting there? Why is there a mug of half-drunk tea on the counter? Was someone here? Pressing her hand to her head she turned off the stove and staggered upstairs to rest.

. . . . . . . . . .

“I’m sorry, sir,” the desk clerk frowned at Arthur Weasley. “He checked himself out, against medical advice, I admit, but he’s an adult and he can do that.”

“But where did he go?” Arthur asked, in the grip of frustration and a growing sense of helplessness.

The desk clerk shrugged but a passing nurse said, “Harry Potter? Said he was going to a cottage up north to recover after his breakdown, wanted to be left alone.” She eyed Mr. Weasley with barely concealed disgust. “Maybe he wanted to get away from your family. Can’t say as I’d blame him.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco and Daphne walked, keeping pace with one another, through the Muggle park. Draco had his hands shoved down into his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the wind while Daphne simply refused to acknowledge the unpleasant weather. My mother would like her, Draco thought. Does. Had, in fact, called her ‘a delightful young woman’ if he recalled correctly, and long experience had taught him it was best to remember the things his mother said.

“How is she doing,” Daphne asked as they turned a corner in the path and made their way towards a monument venerating some middling important Muggle military figure. 

“She’s got good days and bad days,” Draco admitted. “She’s… she’s splendid and terrifying and vengeful and distraught and lost all at once.” And something else, he thought. Something… else.

“Can she govern,” Daphne asked, not mincing words.

“I’m not sure,” Draco said.

Daphne nodded and considered, stopped to pick up a piece of crumpled trash and deposit it with neat disdain in a wire basket. As she was brushing off her hands she said, “Can she hold it together enough to be a figurehead? We’ve got enough of her basic transition agenda already laid out that she doesn’t need to do much more than approve final decisions. We can carry her for a while if she can manage public appearances.”

“That she can do, or will. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Good.” Daphne stopped walking and turned to face the man at her side. “I’ve talked to Theo. We both think we should recruit more Knights. The Aurors…”

“I know,” Draco said. “Do it.” He was still furious – a cold fury that just waited for the right time - that the official Ministry force hadn’t moved to pull Ron from the hall, had just let him disrupt Hermione’s speech. If they’d hauled him off just for disruption she wouldn’t have been attacked. “And get the names of all the men assigned to Hermione that night. They all die.”

Daphne smiled at him and he thought how many people assumed she was a pretty bit of fluff, just a token to be traded by her parents to some man for power. They wouldn’t make that mistake if they saw even a hint of that smile. Daphne Greengrass would serve her enemies poisoned tea then chop the bodies into bits and burn them, all without faltering. Now she just said, “We also need to research more magics that we can use if the transition of power doesn’t go smoothly when it’s the day Shacklebolt is supposed to hand over the reins.”

“I can just see him claiming Hermione’s unfit,” Draco nodded. “Fucking Ron Weasley and his little personal vendetta just playing into that man’s hands.”

“She is unfit,” Daphne said in a low voice. “She’s out of her fucking mind, isn’t she?” When Draco’s eyes flickered just the tiniest bit, confirming Daphne’s guess, the woman added, “So we just have to make sure no one knows that until she’s had time to recover. I am _not_ letting all her work – all our work – come to nothing because Ron decided to try to play assassin.”

“Talk to Blaise about the research,” Draco suggested. “He found the rabbit spell, and now with Luna loose in his library – “

“Let her loose in the Manor,” Daphne said. “Your family’s collection of dark magic tomes is far more complete than Blaise’s.”

Draco nodded. “My mother is riding Pansy on the Wizengamot restructuring, so I know that project’s going to go smoothly. Can you work with Astoria and Greg to get the ‘Adopt an Orphan’ campaign outline?” 

Daphne took his hand briefly in hers. “I’ll do anything you need – anything she needs. Just ask, Draco. We’re all here for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luna and Hermione both reference Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.


	36. Chapter 36

Hannah Longbottom smiled nervously at Narcissa as the woman settled at her kitchen table. She waited for the sneer dismissing the stained Formica or a grimace of genteel snobbery at the fact that they were sitting in the kitchen rather than some pointless room designed just for sitting, but the woman just smiled at her and said, "You have a lovely home, and the garden looks delightful. I think I am envious of that greenhouse; I might have to have one built. This is really such a nice environment to raise your boy."

"Thank you," Hannah stammered as she fished tea bags out of a jar and dropped them into mugs while she waited for the kettle to boil. "I'm sorry I don't have anything to offer - "

"Don't be silly," Narcissa Malfoy brushed her apology off. "I'm sorry I've had the absolute bad taste to simply show up unannounced at your door but I admit I was afraid if I asked you to meet with me you'd refuse."

Hannah looked out and watched Neville show Dillan how to tell weeds from herbs. The two sat together in the greenhouse, visible from the window, grubby and plain with a pile of what she could tell, even from inside, were only partially weeds next to them. Neville never got angry, never snapped at the boy for pulling the wrong plants. When she'd asked him about it he'd shrugged and said, "New seedlings will grow more quickly than feelings can be mended."

Looking back at the elegant woman in front of her she said, "That's probably fair."

"I have a reason for coming here,” Narcissa said with what Hannah thought was remarkable directness. "I have a favor to ask."

Hannah jiggled the kettle back and forth on the burner and wished the water would boil so she could keep her hands busy holding her mug. 

"I'm sure," Narcissa continued on, "you think that's very presumptuous of me but I do request that you hear me out."

Hannah nodded.

"Hermione is planning on reconfiguring the Wizengamot to be just representatives of the traditionally powerful families," the woman began and Hannah immediately stopped her.

"I'm not a pureblood."

Narcissa raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows and said, "And you think that matters because...?"

"It's always mattered," Hannah said, watching the woman at her table. "It's mattered my whole life."

"It doesn't now," Narcissa said. "With Hermione in power blood status is going to shortly mean very little. Family will mean quite a lot, I think, but blood, no."

Hannah stared at her for a moment, then turned back to her stove and jiggled the kettle again. "Do you take cream or sugar?'' she asked without turning around.

"No. I prefer things straight up," Narcissa said. 

"Pure, even?" Hannah asked, grabbing the kettle moments before it began to whistle and adding water to the mugs. She put the mugs on a cheap, dented tray and brought them to the table. As she handed one to Narcissa the woman smiled at her.

"If you think I am a zealot on the matter of blood you fail to understand me. Lucius was - let’s call it ‘limited’ - in his thinking. I am not." She took a sip from her mug. "You are the heir to the Abbott family, and your children will be the heirs after you. If you took a seat on the Wizengamot you'd have the power to shape the way people think about blood status, to shape our world’s future. Just by being openly half-blooded you'd be a role model."

Hannah frowned and swallowed some of her own tea. "You'd also bring a different perspective," Narcissa continued. "After what’s happened Hermione has become very untrusting of anyone outside her immediate circle and that circle is almost wholly made up of Slytherins. There's Luna, of course, but you and your husband would help to balance the..."

"You want me to be your token Hufflepuff," Hannah said, flatly. 

"Not how I would have phrased it but - "

"I thought you liked things straight up," Hannah said. 

Narcissa took another delicate sip and looked out the window and watched Neville and Dillan work in the greenhouse for a few silent moments. "You have the opportunity to be someone girls can look up to, can see as an example of what a woman who isn’t pureblooded can be, a woman who’s openly a half-blood” she said. “Real change doesn’t come from marching in the streets, not even from elections. It comes from the slow, steady shift in how people perceive what is normal.”

They sat in silence after that, until Narcissa added, “He's a handsome boy. How has the transition been?"

"Mostly good," Hannah said. "He's scared of the dark, still, and scared of being alone."

Narcissa nodded. "You should talk to Theodore Nott. Æthel's a bit older, of course, so some of the issues are surely different, but you probably can offer one another some support."

"I'll do that," Hannah said, looking with some surprise at the other woman. "Do you think he'd..."

"Oh, of course he would," Narcissa smiled conspiratorially. "I'll let him know to expect a note from you."

"Why?" Hannah demanded. "Why help me?"

"Well, because I want you to feel mildly beholden to me, of course," Narcissa returned her gaze to the man and boy in the yard. "And because that orphanage is a disgrace. That is not how magical children are treated. Not ever. Children are… beyond valuable."

Under the woman's carefully cultivated tone Hannah could hear her outrage. Whatever else Narcissa Malfoy may want, Hannah thought, whatever she may do, she was genuinely furious about the conditions those children - Hannah's own child - had been kept in. She considered Draco’s lack of siblings, wondered how many losses of her own Narcissa didn’t talk about. That glimmer of sincerity, the sudden sympathy she felt, made Hannah ask, "If I were to take this seat you want to me to take - and I'm not saying I will - would I be able to shut that place down."

Narcissa looked back at her and shook her head. "That place is going to be shut down whether you take on your leadership responsibilities or not."

Hannah nodded, glad that no one would hold that over her head, impressed, against her own wishes, at the other woman’s honesty. It would have been easy to tell her that her participation was crucial to shutting that place down, easy to manipulate her that way. The phrasing – ‘ your leadership responsibilities’ – made her brow furrow a bit; was it true? Does she have an obligation, because of who she was, to do this? After the casual discrimination she’d always faced as a half-blood, could she turn down the opportunity to be that role model?

"I'll think about it," she said finally. "It's a lot."

Narcissa was looking out the window again. "He's a good father, isn't he?" she asked.

"Neville?" Hannah said.

"Yes. He's patient. I've watched that child pull up sweet woodruff three times in a row and your husband hasn't so much as frowned."

"He's a good man," Hannah said.

"He is," Narcissa said, then, "I worry about Theo's Æthel. Putting you two together isn't wholly to your benefit; you might be able to help him too. That girl, she grew up in a group home too, always around other children and now she's an only child. Draco was an only but he never knew any different. I worry Æthel will be," she paused as though searching for the right word. "Lonely. I worry she'll be lonely without..." Then she stopped. "But I shouldn't burden you with my worries when I've already imposed on you so much."

Hannah smiled and reached out her hand to gently touch the older woman. "No," she said quietly. "A burden shared is a burden lightened." 

. . . . . . . . .

Pansy looked at Blaise. Marriage suited him, even marriage to that daft Luna. “I haven’t offered you congratulations yet,” she said quietly. “I wish you much happiness, old friend.”

“She’s just amazing, isn’t she?” Blaise had a dotty, besotted smile. “I never thought I’d be…” he shook his head. “It feels wrong to be so happy with her when everything’s gone to shit.”

“We won,” Pansy said. “It’s not all gone to shit.”

They’d met in one of the coffee shops staffed by members of the underground, the working classes that had propelled Hermione into popularity. They’d repeated limericks, watched and reported on the Order, longed for her to make them feel like their lives had meaning in a larger world. She’d given them everything they wanted, been everything they wanted. Blaise picked up his coffee and stared at the ring left on the paper napkin. “If you say so,” was all he said.

“It’s horrible,” Pansy agreed, “but – “

“Just stop there,” he said. “It’s horrible. And it’s going to get a lot more so.” He leaned back in his seat, the head of the Lady’s intelligence service, such as it was, a leader of men. “Do you know Shakespeare, Pansy?”

“Muggle writer?” she made a face.

“Of course you don’t.” He took another sip of the coffee and then pushed the drink away from him. “Luna does. Things will go forward, Pans. Everything you want, it’s all going to happen. But she’s going to – what were the words Luna used? ‘massacre them all, raze their faction and their family, make them know what ‘tis to let a queen sue for her son’s life in vain’.”

“I thought you hated Muggles, hated mudbloods. What’s with the sudden love for their books?”

Blaise gazed at her, a long, silent stare that made Pansy squirm. “I care about protecting our world,” he said finally. “Muggles are a threat. Muggle-borns are a threat as long as they stay connected to their families. I don’t care about blood at all. And, if you’re smart, you don’t either.”

“But I do,” Pansy said.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Yes,” Shacklebolt said, walking rapidly enough to seem like he wasn’t lingering but slowly enough to talk to the reporter, “I am very concerned. She’s just suffered a terrible loss, was tremendously physically harmed by the experience, and, if I understand correctly, is just starting to get around again. I ask myself if this is the time to ask her to take up the burden of governing. And, of course, though we’ve been most generous in understanding the pressures Mr. Malfoy felt at that moment, I think we should examine whether his response to Mr. Weasley’s attack should be considered murder or, as it’s currently being treated, as self-defense.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“I need,” Draco said, kneeling in front of her, doing that vassalage thing, “your permission for something.”

“Get up,” she muttered, “you aren’t my servant.” 

“I am,” Blaise dropped to his as well. “And your humble one, and I would beg your indulgence, Lady.”

Hermione looked up and Luna was standing there. “He likes begging,” the other woman mouthed and she smiled at that, smiled at Luna, but made no effort to pay serious attention to the men at her feet until Theo dropped down as well.

Draco, she thought, had a bit of a dramatic streak and Blaise could be overwrought as well. Theodore, though, well if Theo knelt he wanted something and wanted it badly enough to openly force her to acknowledge their nearly feudal relationship so he could exploit it to his benefit. 

“Speak,” she said, straightening up in the seat and honoring the nature of the medieval bond she hadn’t thought through quite clearly enough, honoring her obligations to them.

“We would like to collect the Aurors who were assigned to you the night of the election,” Theo said, his voice soft and level in the beautiful room. “We would like to take them to the basement at Malfoy Manor, and not that fancy room you two set up, and we would like to make an example of them.”

“You’re asking for permission to kidnap and kill – “

“ – six men, yes.” Theo finished her question. “Daphne has their names, and Blaise has checked them, I’ve checked them. We know who to get.”

“What do you plan to do with the bodies,” she asked and Blaise and Draco exchanged glances.

“Dump them in front of their office,” Draco said. “Within the Ministry.”

“Dramatic,” she said.

“They failed in their duties.” It was Theo again. “They were assigned to protect you and they ignored a direct order from us when Ron started his diatribe.”

“They need to die,” Draco added.

“_’Raze their faction and their family’_,” Hermione murmured, then nodded, “Permission granted with one condition.”

“Lady?” Theo asked.

“Whatever you do to them, ensure they finally die by drowning.”

“Your wish,” he said, tugging at his forelock and the two of them looked at one another for a long moment in that civilized flat and Hermione finally said, in a whisper, “My command.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry settled into the new room. It was nicer, he thought, than the hospital room, with a soft rug on a polished stone floor and comfortable furniture. He didn’t remember coming here, didn’t remember a lot of things. 

There were no windows. That was strange. And the door was locked. There was one door that led to an en suite, another that just wouldn’t open. He thought he should, perhaps, be more concerned about that but he was just so tired and things were so fuzzy.

Still, even in that fuzziness, he was fairly sure Ginny was dead. He tried to list off things that he knew as solid facts and though that one was crushing he thought it might be true.

He missed Ron. Why hadn’t Ron come by to visit? 

He missed Hermione. Maybe she could explain where Ron was. Maybe she could help him understand what had happened. She was good at that; whenever he’d been confused, needed help, Hermione had been there. She was good at answers. If Hermione ever came by he’d ask her. He could trust her.

. . . . . . . . . .

They brought her George and Percy, her boys, her Draco, her Theo, her Blaise. They brought them to her old flat, to the place they still kept, and forced them to their knees in front of her. 

“You plan to kill us?” George asked. He didn’t even sound surprised but Percy paled, all the blood draining from his face and his eyes widening. “Make it fast,” George asked, lowering his head. “Please don’t make me suffer because of Ron.”

Hermione looked up at her Slytherin princes, all three standing there behind the kneeling men, wands drawn. “You didn’t explain?” she asked, amusement and annoyance competing for dominance in her tone. 

Draco shrugged, Theo looked amused and Blaise almost, but not quite, smothered his grin. Devoted they might be, and wholly loyal, but anyone who mistook them for nice men, for kind people, would be fooling herself. They sometimes liked to play and all three of them had a mean streak hidden under their near impeccable social graces and perfect grooming. Letting the two Weasley brothers think they were going to die would have entertained them all.

“I tortured your mother,” Hermione said, her tone idle, hiding the way she was charmed by her group’s vicious mind games. “Or, rather, I had her tortured while I sat in your kitchen and I listened to her screams. Would you like to know why?”

“She knew, didn’t she,” George whispered. “Oh, God, she knew. And she didn’t stop him.” He began to cry at that, as he hadn’t when the men had snatched him from his shop, as he hadn’t when they’d thrown him to his knees at her feet.”

“She knows about a lot of things, George,” Hermione said, very gently now. “If you walk out of here, I suggest you ask her about the orphanage, about how much she knew about that. She knew about,” Hermione paused, “most of everything.”

Percy gulped.

“If I walk out?” George raised his head and looks at her, perplexed. “Aren’t you going to kill us?”

“Maybe.” Hermione shrugged. “I’m going to wander through your brain like a child in a toy store, playing with whatever interests me. And if you are loyal, if you were wholly ignorant of Ron’s plans, then, yes, you get to walk away. If not, well, you don’t. You’re here for questioning, not murder.”

When she was done with George he rose to his feet, croaked out a “Lady” and headed for the door.

“A drink helps,” Draco murmured as the man passed. 

“Loyal, I take it?” Blaise asked as the door closed behind the shaken and shaking Weasley.

“Oh yes,” Hermione looked at Percy. “Though he might be less so if he were to find out we were responsible for Ginny’s death.” 

  
Percy looked up at that. He’d knelt, head down, through the chilling silence of George’s examination waiting for her to order her attack dogs to kill his brother. When she’d shooed the man away he’d felt himself sag in relief, head still bent towards the floor, shoulders slumped. Now, hearing her confess she’d killed his sister, he stared at her.

“I’ll not bother to shelter you, Percy,” she said, eyeing him. “Your hands are dirty enough I don’t think you’ll recoil in horror at the blood on mine.”

“I…” he looked down. Accept this or die. Her meaning was clear.

“The appropriate response,” Theo said with a smirk, “is ‘my life is yours’.” 

“My life is yours,” Percy repeated without raising his head.

“Indeed it is,” Hermione said and then added, “I do need you to look up. If you can’t do it on your own I’m sure someone will be happy to hold your head for you.” 

Percy shook his head and followed her instructions, looked up. 

He shook as she wandered through his mind; it didn’t hurt, it just felt like standing by and watching someone read your diary and there was a reason Percy had never been a journal keeper. There were so many things he’d done over the past years he was ashamed of, so many things he wished he could take back. I am not a good man, he thought, as she looked for evidence he was disloyal, looked through his mind searching for a reason to kill him. I am not a good man, but I didn’t know Ron would… I’m not good but I’m not that man. 

He considered her claim his mother had known. He suspected his mum hadn’t known all of it. If she had, he thought, she’d be dead now rather than home making dinner and holding herself together with rage and inchoate plans for revenge.

But then, he’d thought Ron’s plans weren’t likely to amount to anything either and yet they had.

At last it was over and she released him and someone shoved a drink into his hand. Why, he wondered, had George been hustled out the door but he was clearly meant to stay. “Welcome to the inner circle,” Hermione said and Percy Weasley almost dropped his glass as he heard the low laughter of the men behind him. 

Power. He’d never wanted it less.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Mr. Greengrass looked at Daphne. Such a perfect daughter, she was poised and beautiful and her expression was utterly vapid. This one, he thought, this one would be easy to manipulate, this one he could marry off to a man standing right behind power. She even liked the fellow, as far as he could tell. They’d certainly worked together on Lady Granger-Malfoy’s election. 

Pity about that curse, of course, but the Malfoy chit would be up and about in time for the actual transition of power in January and, if anything, that attack would just reinforce her trust in her own core team, her distrust of everyone else.

“Daphne,” he said, “you’re getting older and I think the time has come for you to think seriously about marriage.”

“Yes, father,” she said, with an almost perfectly admirable demure smile. 

“I realize this might seem a bit old fashioned to you but I care about you and don’t want you to make the same mistakes Astoria did so I’ve considered who you should marry and have made a decision.”

“Oh, really?”

He frowned at her. That didn’t sound quite as modest and accommodating as he’d hoped. Well, he was her father and she’d simply have to accept that he knew best in these matters.

“Yes. I’ve decided you should marry Theodore Nott.”

Mr. Greengrass was wholly unprepared for the incredulous giggles that burst out of his daughter’s mouth or for the way she bent over in indecorous, almost hysterical, mirth. “I think,” she gasped, “you might want to talk to him about that first. He might – “ she seemed to be having a really hard time controlling herself, “ – he might not be so into the idea of a bride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll find a day to massacre them all / And raze their faction and their family, / The cruel father and his traitorous sons, / To whom I sued for my dear son's life, / And make them know what 'tis to let a queen / Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain. ~ from Titus Andronicus by Shakespeare


	37. Chapter 37

“That wasn’t even nice,” Theo glared at Daphne across the kitchen. “Sending your father to talk to me like that.”

She tossed him the jar of chili sauce and said, “Season the meatballs.”

He grabbed the jar and muttered, “I mean, really, what was I supposed to say?”

The two of them had been working all day on the changeling project. Draco had found the basic spell-work long ago but the practical steps still needed to be refined. Take the living being you wanted to duplicate and tie an illusion of them to an inanimate object using yet another living being to hold the spell. It was trickier than it sounded. They’d been working with feeder mice Daphne had picked up at some Muggle pet shop and they were making progress. Even a mouse, it turned out, could hold the spell but only at short distances. They needed bigger animals, more research.

Daphne was pretending to consider Theo’s possible reactions to her father’s matchmaking idea as she puttered about her kitchen. “You could have told him you thought I was an unrepentant whore and you were hoping for a pure bride?”

Theo choked. When he recovered she was leaning against her hideous counter and laughing at him. “You are a bratty minx, that’s what you are,” he said. “You know the reason.”

“I know,” she turned to pull some lettuce out of a bag and start rinsing it. “Trust me, I nearly lost my head I was giggling so hard when he said he planned to marry me off to you. It was a relief, though. I’d been trying to keep from telling him where he could shove his marital plans.”

“So you made me do it?”

“What are friends for,” she grinned at him.

“Apparently,” he muttered, “they’re for arranged marriages.”

“Well,” Daphne stopped making the salad long enough to catch his eye, “I’ve no interest in marrying for position or power. I think I’ll have quite enough of that on my own in the new regime, thank you very much. You’re quite safe from my clutches.”

“I sometimes wonder,” he said quietly, “whether Æthel needs a mother to help her navigate all the wondrous complexities of our inbred aristocracy. Hermione adores her, but she’s – “

“Both out of her mind and not exactly adept at the rules anyway.”

He nodded. “She’s managed to position herself as powerful enough to be able to flaunt most of them but the next generation of - “

He hesitated and Daphne said calmly, “of royalty,” and he nodded. 

“The next generation of royalty are going to have to be master players, and I want her at, if not the absolute pinnacle of power, then very close.”

Daphne began emptying cherry tomatoes into her salad and asked, without looking up, “Isn’t Narcissa Malfoy enough?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t grow up a girl in our world. You tell me: is she?”

Daphne frowned as she said, “I’m not sure.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Eustacia Parkinson looked at her granddaughter with some irritation. "Pansy," she said, and the girl smiled - simpered, for Merlin's sake - at her across the tea set, "I do realize you aren't a beauty but I had always nurtured what appear to have been vain hopes that you were at least clever."

Pansy dropped the simper and narrowed her eyes at her notorious grandmother. "What do you mean?"

"Beauty is, of course, a short cut to power for women," Eustacia said, looking the girl over with resignation. "And where beauty fails to materialize you can nurture a certain something that captivates. I can't hold your looks against you; sometimes the gods are just cruel. But you should have cultivated something - spirit, wit, eccentricity, _style_ \- that took their place. I blame your mother for that. A girl needs a good mother to learn the skills to survive in our world. But your sheer and utter density in the face of things that should be obvious: that, I think, is solely your own fault."

Pansy tightened her jaw and exhaled. Controlling her urge to tell her grandmother exactly which hell she could go to, the interfering old bat, she said, "I don't follow you."

"I will try to be clearer," Eustacia said, pursing her lips. "I realize your education at that school of yours was woefully lacking but what do you know about elementals?"

"Water, air, fire..." Pansy began.

"No," the old woman snapped. "Those are elements. Elementals - archetypes if you prefer - are forces that you can tap into during complex magical workings. Or, as is more often the case, they are forces that tap into you."

"Well then," said Pansy, wondering if her grandmother had started to suffer dementia, "I'll be sure not to do any complex workings, whatever those are."

"Blood sacrifice is a pretty basic one," Eustacia said, eyeing her as if willing her to understand.

"Well, I wasn't exactly planning on sacrificing anyone so..."

"You already did," Eustacia said flatly. "Or, rather, that little blood traitor brat did and, if we want to be really technical, Draco Malfoy may have as well as that worthless Weasley boy virtually offered himself up as such. Now there are consequences to be dealt with and while, by and large, I'm perfectly happy to have your Hermione able to access that kind of power, as dreadful as the reason is, you might not be if you persist in your antiquated notions of blood purity. She’s not going to have the patience to deal with that much longer.”

"Hermione's a pureblood," Pansy said, looking at her grandmother and trying not to roll her eyes. "Why do you think she's so passionate about the orphan issue?"

"You really are an idiot," Eustacia said, banging her cup down on the table with enough force to rattle the sugar bowl. "If you weren't my blood kin I'd wash my hands of you. I might anyway. I certainly won’t bother demanding any sort of wergild if she should decide to do away with you because of your refusal to let your obsession with blood purity go."

"Hermione's a pureblood," Pansy said again, though she sounded less sure this time.

"Are you always happy to eat bullshite like that?" Eustacia asked, tapping her fingers on the table and examining the girl. She did blame this on the chit’s mother; her own son wasn’t nearly idiotic enough – though he was certainly close – to be responsible for this.

"She's..."

"She played a part to get power, clever girl that she is,” Eustacia said. "But, unless I'm quite wrong about her, she's going to purge her inner circle of anyone who objects to her actual blood status; she’d be a fool not to and, whatever else she may be, she’s no fool. And whatever squeamishness she might have once had about killing people, well, I suspect she doesn’t have that anymore now that’s she’s… more."

"She's a pureblood," Pansy said. "No mudblood could be that powerful. Draco Malfoy..."

"Would have married a frog to get power, much less an attractive woman, even one he didn’t like as a boy." Eustacia said. "He grew up and, honestly, he probably orchestrated the whole charade because he’s just that cold. Pragmatism. Cunning. Any means to achieve our ends. Did you listen when that absurd hat explained what it meant to be Slytherin or did you really think it was about blood purity?" She shook her head. "No one who matters cares about blood status; it's a tool to manipulate the masses, it’s the sort of thing idiotic men go to war over, but it’s not something any member of our class should let herself be limited by; not ever, and certainly not now. Decide if you want to be purged as untrustworthy, Pansy, because, if you can't grow up about this, you probably will be."

. . . . . . . . . .

“Let me see Alicia,” Harry begged, his head down in his hands. “Let me see my daughter.”

Draco laughed at him as he leaned up against the wall and watched Hermione study her old friend. He wouldn’t let her come down here alone, was afraid of what she’d do, was afraid too much contact with Harry would drive her further down into spiraling despair. She clearly didn’t know what to do with the man. Kill him, torture him, release him. She’d come down and stare at him, usually without speaking. Sometimes she’d go back upstairs afterwards and review reports and plans as though nothing had happened; sometimes she’d rage, sobbing against Draco until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

“How about,” she said now, looking at Harry, “you get to see your daughter when I get to see my son?”

. . . . . . . . . . .

Luna sat in the greenhouse watching Neville put seeds into small pots, one at a time. She'd offered to help but he'd waved her off, muttering something about how the germination requirements were very particular and these were hard to cultivate and if the conditions were even slightly wrong and, well, he was sorry but her history with plants just wasn't...

She'd laughed and cut him off. "Fine," she'd said, "don't make me get my hands dirty. I can live with that."

"You should take the Longbottom seat," she said as he worked. "Hannah's going to take the Abbott seat."

They'd been sitting in silence in the warmth, so welcome in the grey winter day, and Neville didn't even look up at her suggestion. "I don't think so," he said. "I'm not that interested in the Wizengamot or politics."

"Politics is interested in you, whether you want it to be or not," Luna observed. "Refusing to take a seat is as much of a statement as taking one." She’d pulled herself up to sit on the worktable and was swinging her feet as she sat. These silver shoes were really fabulous; who knew Blaise had such an eye for sparkly things. 

“I thought ravens liked shiny things,” he’d said when he tossed them to her. 

“That’s a bit of a myth,” she’d said, “but I like them anyway.” And she quite did; they caught the light as she swung them back and forth in this warm and lovely greenhouse where she was cultivating Neville. She wanted a greenhouse; it was glorious to not be cold while being surrounded by living things in the winter. 

"I don't want to make any statement," Neville muttered, a faint pigment of frustration coloring his tone, "I just want to..."

"You don't get to choose silence," Luna interrupted him. "Not really. Not you. You're a hero of the war, you were friends with both Ron and Hermione, and you’re the last scion of your house. Everything you do will be read as meaning something, as choosing a side."

"I don't want to be some kind of mouthpiece," Neville said at last, his hands never faltering as he put seed after seed in pot after pot. "I won't just rubber-stamp whatever it is Hermione wants to do. If I don't agree with her - "

"Then vote against her. No one wants you to be anything other than what you are," Luna said, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she looked up at the roof. "You have a bit of ivy trying to escape up there."

Neville glanced up. "Plants. Some are hard to get to start, some are hard to keep contained." He sighed and, with a quick flick of his wand, burned back the tendril of the vine that had almost gotten away. "As much as I love the way that one adds color and life, let it get away and it'll break the glass, let the cold air in and everything else would whither."

"Language is easier," Luna said, still eyeing him. "It never tries to run off and break things."

Neville snorted at that. "No one ever said ivy was mightier than the sword."

“Maybe,” Luna went back to watching her shoes catch the light. “But in the end, it’s the ivy that wins every time.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione sat down at the table, surrounded by men with wands in their hands, a room choke with filled chairs facing her. Daphne had the reporters and photographers neatly cordoned into a small area, keeping the illusion that this was an intimate gathering as best she could, just the Lady answering the questions of some of her closest supporters.

The armed and wary men did make that illusion harder to maintain.

“Aren’t Aurors usually, well, subtler than this,” one woman leaned over to her partner and asked. The man eyed the men on the platform. 

“Those aren’t Aurors,” he said. “Some kind of private security force. Can’t say I’m surprised after what happened.” The woman nodded. Blaise, once he’d sobered up, had been quick to plant the idea throughout his network that the Aurors had deliberately refused to help the newly elected Minister and had thus enabled the Order of the Phoenix, in the form of Ron Weasely, to attack her.

Hermione raised a hand when the room had settled, when Draco gave her the signal from the back before making his way to her side. “Thank you all for coming,” she said, “your support matters more than I can say. Our…” she broke down for a moment and swallowed hard, “our personal loss has not lessened my commitment to the wizarding world. I will not let a…” she stopped again. “I will not live in fear.” She finally said. “My team is working hard to prepare for a smooth transition when I take office in slightly less than two months and I think we have some fairly exciting ideas. The one I want to talk about today is one near to my heart, namely the Order of the Phoenix Memorial Orphanage.”

She looked up at Daphne, standing slightly to her left, and the woman slid a pile of papers into her hand. “My assistant, Daphne Greengrass, has been working with her sister to take on the task of finding homes for all the children who currently live in that facility. They’re still working through the details but, once I’m sworn in, we plan to ensure that families who bring these children into their homes have some generous tax stipends to help pay for school expenses; even though Hogwarts is, of course, free, we all know school supply bills can seem monumental.”

“What about people like your brother?” Someone called out. “He’s rich – he doesn’t need any bloody kickback from the government.”

“I plan to donate my portion to the orphanage for general maintenance,” Theo said with total ease. “As you rightly point out, I don’t need any financial help, and no one will be forced to take any. We just want to ensure that no one is prevented from considering adoption because they fear school expenses. We want these kids to find families that love them, not just wealthy parents.”

“Leave her alone,” someone hissed at the heckler.

“No,” Hermione smiled at the woman defending her. “We want to put this plan out there now so the public can comment on it. We want to know what you think; my advisors are bright people and I trust them implicitly but there are lots of people with good ideas and we want to hear from you. From all of you.”

“Well done,” Draco said afterwards, kissing her. “You did it. Your first public appearance since…”

“Yes,” Hermione said, her voice water sliding over rocks.

. . . . . . . . . .

The first time she’d walked through the Weasley wards Hermione had left a bit of a back door so any of them could come and go as they pleased; this time they’d opted to leave her at home. She didn’t need to know everything. 

“Molly,” Theo greeted the woman as he ambled into her kitchen and she looked up, perplexed.

“How did you get in,” she asked, not even pretending to be gracious.

Blaise laughed and Draco playfully smacked him. “She doesn’t remember. Don’t mock.”

“That’s right,” Theo said. “We’re here to hurt her, not to make fun of her. Try to not be a total arse, Blaise. It’s like you were raised in a barn.”

“My apologies,” the reprimanded man said, no actual regret in his tone. “I’ll try to do better next time.”

“And there will be a next time,” Draco said, stalking over to the woman. “We can’t kill your wretched son slowly, as we’ve all dreamed of - ”

“Some of us since we were eleven,” Blaise snickered.

“- but we can hurt you. And then we can obliviate you. And then we can hurt you again. And again. And again. I wonder when you’ll actually break, when, even without conscious recollection of what we’re going to do to you, your mind will just snap.”

Theo had helped himself to an apple from a fruit bowl and, taking a bite, made a face. “This a bit mealy,” he muttered and Blaise rolled his eyes.

“Did you really eat something you found in this house? What is wrong with you? Talk about being a total arse.”

“Would it be possible for you two to stay focused?” Draco complained as Theo took another bite and, wrinkling his nose, tossed the offending apple into the sink.

“You hurt my sister,” Theo said, looking at Molly. “And, really, a good bout of pain for that apple wouldn’t be amiss either. But, the main thing is you helped your loathsome child hurt our Lady with your little portkey-snatching trick. Nifty spell, that. Percy told us all about it, once we knew what to ask thanks to our last little session with you. Stands to reason, I suppose, that any woman who raised your brats would have had a knack for pulling unwanted things out of pockets.”

“My mother preferred the stare of death,” Draco said, pointing his wand steadily at the ginger woman. Molly watched them with a grim and determined scowl on her face. “One learned quickly enough to not cross her. But some families keep their children in line and some families are the Weasleys.”

“My mother just didn’t care what I did so long as I stayed out of her way,” Blaise shrugged. “And I’m sure your nannies all had tricks like dear Molly’s. Your mother didn’t need them because the help ensured you didn’t try to smuggle frogs to the table in your pockets.”

“Can you imagine,” Theo laughed, drawing his own wand, “anyone having the nerve to pull a frog out of his pocket at Narcissa Malfoy’s dinner table?”

“Not really,” Blaise was twirling his own wand between his hands, ready to get started.

“You boys need to leave now,” Molly Weasley sounded firm, her feet braced against the floor, her hands on her hips, and all three of them laughed. She’d spent a lifetime herding recalcitrant boys and a dreamy husband into line and she seemed to think she could use the same force of will, the same tone of voice, to compel the three men who’d let themselves into her house, who’d come into her kitchen, to leave. 

“I think the phrase you want,” Theo said, eyeing Draco, who appeared speechless that the woman he was about to torture was trying to order him about, “is ‘make me’.”

“Thank you, Theo,” Draco nodded, a gracious little nod of his head as though he were acknowledging an introduction at a charity banquet. “Mrs. Weasley,” he smiled at the woman. “Make me.”

She had her wand out before he’d finished speaking but, before she could get a shot off, Blaise had snagged it and Draco whispered, “_crucio_”.  
  
Without Hermione there to limit their time they had to exercise self-control and, as Blaise admitted later over a pint, self-control had never really been his strength.

“Still,” Theo said, “she lives to make another meal. A meal of mealy apples.” He made a face again. “Bad apples are really so awful. They look so tempting but then you bite into them and - “

“Stop,” Blaise said. “Please. Enough about your obsession with fruit.”

“It’s hardly an obsession,” Theo objected. “I just really like apples.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Molly Weasley sat at the table she used as a desk rubbing the back of her neck. She wasn’t sure why she’d been having such horrible headaches lately but this was the second one that made her feel like she’d just gone a round with a batch of Death Eaters. Still, time, tide and paperwork wait for no woman and she had a bunch of financial reports from the orphanage to doctor before that harlot took power. Hermione’s people were already making noises about investigating where all the funding had gone in detail and about setting up special committees to investigate possible misuse of monies. 

They talked about using the orphanage budget to place those little brats with families who wanted them.

As if anyone would want them. She supposed bribing people to take the kids was as good a way as any of shutting the orphanage down. Probably cheaper too.

Molly rubbed her head again and muttered as she changed numbers and edited the reports to hide all the money they’d skimmed. George was right behind her, reading over her shoulder before she noticed he was there.

“So you did know,” he said, and when she didn’t answer he asked, his voice louder, “Did you care about those kids, suffering in poverty? Were you trying to punish them for the sins of their fathers? Or was it all about the money? Greed or vengeance? Or a little of both?”

“Their parents killed your brother,” Molly hissed and George stared at the back of her head.

“But they didn’t. They’re _kids_.” He was breathing hard, she could hear him, could hear something shatter in his voice when he asked, his voice quiet again, “Did you know about Ron too? Did you know he planned to – “?

“I knew he was going to confront her,” Molly snapped. “She needs confronting. She’s a monster, George, she left your brother, killed Ginny, took up with all those boys. They’re practically the next generation of Death Eaters and who cares if she’s hurt? _Who cares?_ Our world would have been better off if someone had murdered Tom Riddle as a boy and it would be equally better off if someone – “

“Stop.” George was very quiet. “Just stop.”

He was gone before she turned around.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco sat on the bed, finger-combing out Hermione’s curls. She was having a good day, no screaming. No sobbing. He’d never have believed, when they started, even when she’d become pregnant with his child, that she’d be so nearly broken by the loss of their son. Seeing her this way had almost broken him. 

“I want to move,” she said, breaking the silence. “I can’t stay in this flat. The nursery – “

“Done,” he said. “Do you want to keep anything or do you want everything new?”

“Everything new.”

He nodded and twined some of her hair around his finger and watched the way the browns and golds and hints of red shifted in the flickering candlelight. “I’ll have us moved by this time tomorrow.”

He didn’t tell her he’d had another flat ready for a week, had known that sooner or later she’d want to go. This place was a swamp of memories. This was where she’d told him about the baby, this was where she’d sworn at him as she struggled with morning sickness, this was where she’d decorated the nursery. He’d be as relieved as she to leave those ghosts behind them. 

“I want another baby,” she said then, still not turning around. He closed his eyes, pain, and fear and love struggling for control as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. “Not to show at the election, like Theo wanted, not to put on a throne. I want _your baby_.” Hermione continued and Draco felt his eyes begin to burn as he held back the tears. 

“Our baby,” was all he said and she nodded.


	38. Chapter 38

Draco stood in the doorway of Harry Potter’s prison and looked down at the man with more than a little irritation. “I find myself, Potter, in the unpleasant position of having to protect you.”

Potter didn’t react from where he sat on the bed other than to snort with some disbelief. At least, Draco thought, the man wasn’t totally catatonic anymore. Rude, and typically lacking in wisdom with the way he risked antagonizing his jailer, but not catatonic. It was an improvement. 

Draco continued, “Not that I like you, of course. I still hate you; if it were at all possible I think I would hate you now even more than I did when we were children. But I am forced to admit I don’t think you were responsible for my son’s death and, once she’s not trapped in the worst of her grief, Hermione’s going to realize that too and when she does, well, she’d never forgive herself if she found out she’d hurt her precious Harry Potter.” He paused and regarded the man on the bed. “It’s a pity, really.”

“So,” Harry muttered, “you aren’t hurting me because you love Hermione. I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh, I do love her. Quite a bit, really. It’s astonishing how poorly I knew her when we were in school, how I never saw through the pushy swot to the cold-blooded, lying, manipulative witch she was underneath that annoying need to prove herself. The witch she still is.” Draco shrugged and slouched against the doorway as he looked the other man up and down with no little amount of scorn. “Well, I was young and easily deceived by bad hair and my prejudice about blood status. Now, well, now I appreciate her for who and what she is. Something, I suspect, you never really did, not fully. If you’d had any idea what she was capable of you’d never have risked antagonizing her.

“But, the basic point you might want to hold on to inside your broken little brain is this: because I love the woman, I’m keeping her from hurting you. Given how much I’d enjoy watching you bleed out at my feet, I feel my self-control is remarkable.”

Harry Potter looked up at that and Draco laughed. “Oh, I’m not going to hurt you either. I could obliviate you afterwards, of course, and have plenty of fun, but it’s not worth having to lie to Hermione when I tell her, eventually, that no one harmed a hair on your worthless head. She has a knack for knowing when people lie and it rather irritates her. Keeping you… whole… is a gift I’m giving her. Some people give their wives books, or puppies, or flowers. I’m giving her you.”

Draco turned to go and added, “I’m going to bring a mind Healer in to try to get you reasonably coherent again. Try to cooperate with the man; he doesn’t usually make house calls, much less carefully constructed torture chamber calls.”

“Am I supposed to thank you?” Harry spat out.

“That I’m ensuring you don’t get tortured into madness or death?” Draco’s tone was mild. “You might consider it.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco had gotten used to the specific way Hermione was not quite right to the point that he’d cataloged what he thought of as three distinct versions of her. There was the sad, angry, grieving mother who was - despite her understandable tendency to sob - stable and still her politically astute self. There was the not-quite-so-stable Hermione, who, vengeful and dark, was happy to torture Molly Weasley – not a project he objected to – as well as Harry, one he didn’t object to in theory but one that, alas, he knew she’d eventually regret. 

That he had to protect a man he despised rankled. He added being brought to this point to the list of things for which he’d never forgive Ron Weasley.

He loved both versions of Hermione - loved her in any guise, any aspect – but he would be glad when she stabilized again. When she healed. He wasn’t naïve enough to think she’d ever be ‘over it’. Neither of them would. There are some things from which you never recover. He knew their son’s due date was a day they’d spend alone every year for the rest of their lives. But, still, things were better. She was getting better. He was getting better. At least she no longer woke up screaming the name they’d never told anyone. Moving had helped. Starting to think about trying again had helped. 

The problem - the mystery - was the third one. He couldn’t quite decide if she were always there, or if she just sometimes stopped by for a visit. She wasn’t sad, wasn’t vengeful, she was just _there_, watching. Interested. _Curious_. Sometimes in a strategy session she’d made a suggestion; the idea to provide stipends to families who adopted orphans had been hers, along with a caveat to ensure the children went to their followers. 

He’d asked her why, and the answer had chilled even him. “You,” she’d said, and he’d noted it was ‘you’ and not ‘we’, “have twenty-two custom built fanatics. It would behoove you to keep their loyalty focused on you.” She’d paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “on me.”

“Twenty-three,” he’d corrected, watching her. “Don’t forget about Æthel.”

“I’m not.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“I don’t trust the Aurors,” the man said, glaring at his mates across a pint. “If they can’t even do their job to protect the bloody Lady do you think they’ll really do anything to protect the likes of us?”

There were nods all around and one man spit on the floor. “They only care about keeping things the way they are.”

“Power corrupts,” another man said, thinking himself wise after a few drinks. “They’ve got the wands and the right to shoot off whatever they want and us, we’ll get ourselves in trouble for – “

“For just about anything,” the barmaid said, wiping the counter in front of them. “No blood magic, no dark magic, and they all define what’s dark. The rules are set by thems in power to keep themselves there and our lot – “

“Our _Lady_,” one man interjected.

“- can just go hang as far as they’re concerned.”

. . . . . . . . .

Percy had to admit that Hermione’s inner circle knew how to throw a party. Even in the midst of grief, they’d procured enough alcohol to get everyone pissed, enough food to soak up the booze and they were grouped in mostly cheerful little clusters around the nearly empty flat. He just felt awkward and out of place. He’d never been comfortable at parties, even in school, even with his family. He didn’t know what to say and inevitably ended up saying the wrong thing and that had been with people he knew, people who had known him since he was a boy and who tended to shrug away his stiff attempts at social chit chat as just Percy being Percy.

Now, well, Pansy had already rolled her eyes at him and muttered she had no idea why Hermione had brought a Weasley into their circle, that grief had clearly unhinged her and that she was sure that as soon as the woman had come back to her senses he’d be as dead as his worthless brother. 

“Don’t mind her,” Theo Nott handed him a drink. “She’s a right bitch.”

Percy took the glass and forced a smile onto his face as he looked at the other man. “Fuck,” Theo was muttered and Percy followed his gaze to Luna and Blaise who were, well, he wasn’t sure what they were doing but if there were rules against anything in this world there was probably, somewhere, a rule against that. “They do it on purpose, you know,” Theo said under his breath. “They actually like making people uncomfortable with their bullshite. He’s always been like that and now he’s found another little exhibitionist so it’s getting worse.”

“Uh,” Percy stumbled around what to say.

Theo flicked a sympathetic glance at him. “Hard, isn’t it, to get shoehorned in at this late date? I’d say it was nice of Hermione to throw a party for you to welcome you in but I suspect her intentions were a bit more malicious than that. Rather like Luna, she likes seeing people squirm sometimes.” He took a swallow of his own drink. “Rather like all of us, really. We aren’t good people, you know.”

Percy took a deep breath and asked, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Theo snorted. “You aren’t a good person either. Like it or not, you fit in here. Power-hungry, manipulative. You’ll get your feet under you in time, don’t worry. We’re not going anywhere. The election was just the beginning.”

“Am I allowed to ask the plan?” Percy took a drink from his glass, wishing he could throw back alcohol with the same insouciant grace this lean man standing next to him could. Theo made him feel even more awkward just by existing. Daphne Greengrass, who’d walked past them, did the same. She’d eyed him and Theo and grinned, a knowing smirk that made Percy want to shrink into himself, the rabbit caught in the gaze of the hawk.

Theo had watched Daphne’s passage with a roll of his eyes. “Honestly,” he’d muttered, “that woman is going to be the death of me. And her flat,” he’d turned to Percy and said, mock horror in his voice, “she actually has green counters. _Green_. It’s like some kind of sin, an actual Muggle sin.” Now he laughed and took another relaxed swig from his glass. “Fairly simple, really. As soon as she’s sworn in she’ll strip the parliament down to just family representatives. I assume you’re meant to take the Weasley seat – “

“Is that why I’m here?” Percy had interrupted. “Are all the seat holders members of this – “

“Oh, hell no,” Theo laughed again. “Most of them know what we’re doing, of course. I wouldn’t try to fool Eustacia Parkinson on a bet, and Narcissa Malfoy isn’t a woman to trifle with even if she isn’t here drinking and trying not to watch the Luna Show. But some are genuine innocents, doing good works and all. No, the Lady wanted you here and she has her reasons and none of them are quite as transparent as you being on the Wizengamot. Though I’m sure, of course, you’ll vote the way she asks.”

“My life is hers,” Percy said, the words stiff and barely sincere.

“A thing you’d do well to remember,” Theo said, eying the man. “Once the Wizengamot is straightened out, the government will be returning illegally seized lands and vaults to their rightful owners.”

“Meaning purebloods,” Percy said.

“He catches on,” Theo raised his glass towards Percy in a mock toast.

“Still corrupt, then,” Percy said and Theo put two fingers under his chin, looked into his eyes.

“You have no idea what corruption is, Percy Weasley, but you’ll learn. You made yourself feel better with a veneer of good intentions but we won’t be bothering with that. Things like your little Russian shenanigans are nothing; your farm aid diversion nothing but youth alliance level stuff. We’ll be dismantling any hint of democracy, installing puppets, and the people will yell in the streets to have her crowned as their Queen, a demand to which she’ll graciously give in.”

“Regent,” Draco interrupted them. “She’ll be crowned regent.”

“Regent for whom?” Theo asked and Draco sighed.

“Not sure, but she’s clear, still, that she expects to rule only until someone is of age, someone she plans to groom.” All three men stood silently then, Theo narrowing his eyes in consideration, Percy staring at the floor wishing he were anywhere else. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Marcus Flint cornered Theo after the party. "I have a question," he said, pressing his lips together nervously and Theo sighed. Marcus, he thought, wasn't the easiest man to deal with. He was a simple thinker, and while Theo was impressed with the man's fluid understanding of crowd dynamics the way any uncertainty required clarification was tiresome.

"Yes," he said.

"I've been upping recruitment for the Knights," the man began and Theo nodded impatiently. "Do we have any kind of gender restrictions?"

Theo squinted at the man. "What?"

"I'm getting a _lot_ of women who want to join. Apparently Eustacia Parkinson has kindled some kind of lust for adventure in the hearts and minds of almost an entire generation of pureblood girls. Since their parents won't let them run off to the Amazon to collect rare plants or something a lot of them have latched onto the idea of joining the Knights as..."

Theo cut him off. "If they're of age and competent, sure. Casting curses isn't exactly restricted to men." He thought of Daphne and how offended she would be if she found out about this little conversation. "Word of advice," he added. "Don't ever tell Hermione or Daphne you had to ask me if you could recruit women. That wouldn't go over very well."

Marcus nodded, very seriously, and Theo resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Loyal, but an idiot. And the sexism – did the man have a death wish? Had he failed to notice they were in the service of a woman? That Theo’s own heir was a girl? That his best friend and closest working partner was Daphne, a pureblood woman of the old school, who could throw a party that nailed every itty bitty bothersome etiquette detail and during which her enemies would unknowingly imbibe some kind of slow-acting poison? Daphne, a woman who must never _ever_ hear about Marcus’ ludicrous question lest she serve some of that poison to him?

On second thought, he was absolutely going to tell Daphne about this. Watching her sputter about Marcus' casual sexism would liven up his night. He'd better pick up a bottle on the way over to her place, though, because he was pretty sure they'd finished off the last of her whiskey earlier this week and, while his brain was a little unclear on everything that had happened that night other than she shamelessly cheated at card games, he suspected he'd promised to replace the bottle. 

They spent so much time, these days, at one another's places he wondered if things would be easier if she moved into his spare room. Would it be too confusing for Æthel if he were living with a woman? He knew it would plant false hope in Mr. Greengrass's manipulative little heart but he didn't care about that; he just didn't want to lead Æthel into thinking Daphne was anything more than his best friend.

Though, of course, the girl could use a mother. A mother who was a woman of the old school, someone who combined ruthless understanding of the rules with no moral scruples at all other than personal loyalty. 

Someone who could teach her how to be the same, who could teach her the intricacies of being a pureblood woman by daily example, not just through visits over tea and drilling before formal parties.

Someone like Daphne.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco had his arms wrapped around Hermione in their new flat when Blaise walked in, answering the very polite summons he’d received from the man earlier that day. He glanced around. The new place was wholly different. Instead of the cool modernism of their last home, this one was filled with dark woods and warm textures; it wrapped comfort around you. The pair were snuggled onto a couch, Hermione leaning on Draco in a way Blaise had only rarely been permitted to see; they tended to present themselves as the Queen and her loyal but very much subservient partner. Blaise hated how fragile she looked and felt that rage boiling again. She was _theirs_. Their Lady. Their future. And that worthless blood traitor had had the gall to hurt her.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself for not just killing the man the moment he’d seen the mark on Hermione’s wrist, the moment he’d known – he’d bloody well _known_ – the blighter was violent and unpredictable. She would have hurt him but he didn’t think she’d have done anything permanent. She hadn’t let them do anything permanent to Molly Weasley, after all. He’d have survived.

Failed, he thought. I failed as your vassal. You trusted me and I failed and –

“Blaise,” her liquid voice cut off his inner monologue. 

“Lady,” he knelt down and she sighed but didn’t tell him to rise.

“We have a problem,” she said and Blaise looked quickly at Draco who, almost imperceptibly, shook his head. “In order to retrieve magical babies born into the Muggle world we need to know who they are.”

Blaise nodded. 

“The list at Hogwarts of all students to be offered admission is updated with each birth, is it not?” 

He knew a rhetorical question when he heard one but answered her anyway. “Yes, Lady.”

“I need you to get that list and make us a duplicate copy, preferably without McGonagall knowing.”

Blaise paused to gather his thoughts. “You’re asking me to break into a heavily warded, magical building, steal a priceless, one-of-a-kind magical object, make a copy, and return the original, all without being caught?”

“Is that a problem?” She smiled at him and he sighed.

“No. But it may take a bit of work.”

“If I thought it were easy I would have asked Greg to do it.” She dismissed his objection and he sighed again and sat back onto his heels. 

“Is there a time limit?”

She shrugged again and just said, “The sooner we have it, the sooner we can begin cutting ties between magical children and the Muggle world.”

“So I want it done yesterday,” Blaise glanced at her, waiting for permission to rise and she clearly stifled a sigh before waving him up.

“Why must you all do the medieval thing?” she complained once he was standing and he grinned at her.

“Keeps you in line,” he said. Then, when she finished laughing, he added, sinking back down, “I would like to beg forgiveness for not…”

“You did nothing wrong.” She cut him off. “Your conduct has been without blemish and you have our complete trust and gratitude.”

“I should have killed him,” Blaise said. “Should have.”

“And I should have listened to you,” Hermione said, her voice quiet and serious. “I failed to take your advice, duly given and unfairly dismissed. It is I who should be begging your pardon.”

Blaise looked up at her, shocked. “Never.” He lunged forward and grabbed her hands out of her lap and held on to them. “You, as you have pointed out before, are running a dictatorship here. I offer you advice but you can’t go about apologizing for not taking it!”

“Still,” she said but he shook his head at her.

“Absolutely not. My life is _yours_.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo stuck his head in the door and looked at Hermione sitting at the table. "Can I come in?" he asked and, looking up at him, she smiled and nodded.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" She asked. 

"Æthel asked me to give you this," he said and handed her a folded sheet of paper. When Hermione opened it her eyes almost immediately begin to water and she looked up at Theo.

“Did she show this to you?” she asked and he nodded, watching her.

Hermione looked down again at the drawing. The child had managed to capture a fairly good likeness of herself with her charcoals. That wasn't what made her cry. What brought the tears to her eyes was the way the girl’s self-portrait showed her kneeling by a sheer curtain her hand reaching out towards a small fair-haired child partially obscured on the other side who was reaching back towards her, their hands almost touching across the veil. "My Cousin," Æthel had labeled the drawing. 

Hermione stopped trying to hold back the tears and simply threw herself into Theo’s waiting arms. "It's so unfair," she sobbed. 

"I know, sis. I know," he said.

“He was supposed to be the prince,” she said, her face muffled against the man’s chest. “He was the heir, my son. I didn’t even know it was possible to love someone that much, someone I never even met, someone I never even got to _hold_.”

“I know,” he said again, letting her cry against him.

. . . . . . . . . .

“We’ve got the spells stabilized,” Daphne handed Draco the write-ups of her work with Theo. “We’re going to start testing on Muggles who are already dead, see if their science can detect anything. If that works we’ll move forward into live subject testing.”

“How’s working with Theo,” Draco’s tone was deceptively casual as he read over what she’d handed him but he didn’t fool Daphne.

“Gosh,” she said, looking up at him, her eyes as wide as she could make them. “He’s just the bestest, Draco. I’ve never known a man like him. He’s smart and funny and has good taste and I just can’t stop thinking about him. Do you think he might like me?”

Draco glanced up, cringing, ready to have an uncomfortable conversation. “Umm, Daph…” he said but she was still going on.

“My father plans to try to arrange a marriage for us. Wouldn’t that be swell? Just, golly, I can’t think of anything better than that, can you? I mean, can’t you just picture me and Theo on our wedding day?” She fluttered her eyelashes while clutching her hands to her heart. “He’ll be eyeing the catering staff, an apple in one hand a bottle of lube in the other while I – “

“Sorry I underestimated you,” Draco muttered, interrupting her. “No need to be quite so bitchy about it. I was trying to head you off if you had – “

She laughed. “I probably know more about the man’s sex life than you do, Draco. He likes to kiss and tell and we’ve spent a _lot_ of time together on this project. He’s my friend, probably my best friend, and he’s brilliant and funny and unbelievably filthy with the details when he’s drunk but I’m neither delusional nor romantically interested.”

“I do recall the kissing and telling thing,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “I’d have thought he’d have kept it a bit under wraps with a woman, though.”

“Because I’m such a fragile flower?” Daphne raised her eyebrows and Draco laughed. “Look, do we have the okay to go forward with the Muggle testing? The process is going to slow down a lot once we’re using human subjects and I want this ready to go as soon as possible.”

“Yeah,” he tossed the papers back at her. “Go for it. Let me know how it goes.”

“Will do.” She paused then added, “How’s Hermione?”

“Better.” Draco closed his eyes tightly then opened them again. “She’s better. She’s getting there.”

“How are you?”

“Better,” he said. “I’ll be better still when the Aurors who failed her are dead.”

“Understood.” She stood to go and, at the door, added one more thing. “Draco?”

“Yeah?”

“Make it slow.”

He smiled at her. “Oh, I will.”


	39. Chapter 39

Harry’s room wasn’t soundproofed. He could hear, now that he was paying attention, when Hermione came down to the dungeons, down to see him. He could hear when Draco Malfoy walked the mind Healer down, and he could hear the man leave. Still, it was usually quiet which made it much more noticeable than it otherwise would have been when multiple people came tromping past his door with thuds and the muffled voices of several people. There was laughing and swearing and at least one man threatening that they’d all die. 

He could hear what sounded like Blaise Zabini – wasn’t he married to Looney Lovegood? – say, “Someone tell me I can have this one – he just tried to bite me.”

“Bite you?” That was clearly Draco Malfoy. “Are they toddlers? What the hell?”

More banging, the sound of doors opening, a pause, and then the screaming started. Harry sat on his bed for a while and tried to pretend he wasn’t hearing men being tortured in rooms near his. The screaming would ebb for a bit, and he’d hear people walking back past his door. Food would arrive and he’d eat it. He’d hear more people walking past and the screaming would begin again. Without any type of window it was hard to track the passage of time. The mind Healer had mentioned he would come once each week, and he hadn’t come since the torture sessions had begun so it had been less than a week. Food arrived in what he assumed were regular intervals, magically appearing on a table; the plates disappeared shortly before new ones came. Sometimes he didn’t get up to eat and the full plates vanished, only to be replaced by new full plates. He began to think several days had gone by with the periodic screaming when Draco Malfoy opened his door.

“I want a clock or a calendar or something,” Harry said, not bothering to greet the tosser. “I’m losing time.”

‘Well, look who’s getting more and more coherent. I was told that mind Healer was good and I’m pleased to see the recommendations were right,” Malfoy said. “Getting over the death of your drunk of a wife, are you?”

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” Harry said, glaring at the man.

“I’m afraid, unlike you, I’m a one-woman man,” Malfoy said, leaning up against the door frame. “And even if I weren’t, you aren’t my type. I like them a little eviler than you’ll ever be able to manage.”

“Can I get that calendar,” Harry said, ignoring the reference to Hermione as evil even as he could hear the begging and sobbing start up again.

“Of course,” Draco said. “I’ll have the Healer bring you one.”

“What the fuck are you doing,” Harry waved towards the sound. “Made your own little torture wank room down there, you sick fuck?”

Draco looked around, seemingly rather amused, but all he said was, “I’m avenging my son, taking care of some of the people who let my wife suffer.” When Harry didn’t say anything he added, “When your wife suffered wasn’t it at your hands? All that public humiliation that you weren’t attracted enough to her to stay in her bed, had to go and dip your wick into everyone you could?”

“Fuck you,” Harry said again, his voice duller this time.

“Of course,” Draco said, “We were the ones who turned her into an alcoholic, got her all that alcohol, an endless supply of poison she couldn’t resist. It’s amazing what you can do with the combination of magic and Muggle mail order.”

Harry narrowed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists but didn’t get up from the bed.

“Staying still is a smart choice,” Draco mocked, pulling out his wand. “Since you lack a wand and getting into a battle with another wizard when you’re unarmed is stupid, even for you.”

“You killed her,” Harry said and Draco laughed.

“Actually, we just gave her the weapon and a fascination with it. It was Hermione’s idea, of course. That kind of restrained elegance is more her hallmark than mine; I tend to just _crucio_ people. For some reason the way your little wife turned on my love after the Ron incident rankled and she does carry a grudge. I expected her to make the woman’s skull into a wine glass, to be honest. Just killing her off was fairly mild.”

A particularly shrill screech interrupted them. 

Draco looked annoyed and, for the first time, a trifle worried. “If you’ll excuse me I need to make sure Blaise doesn’t overdo it. The Lady has been very clear on how these people are to die.”

“Hermione knows what you’re doing?” Harry stared at the man.

“Of course.” Draco rolled his eyes before shutting the door. “We asked her permission. She’s the _Lady_. We’re just her humble and obedient servants.”

Harry heard that voice saying ‘she’s the _Lady_’ in his nightmares for days.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione loved Draco’s colouring. He was just so pale. Pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes. She loved to watch him against a window, where he almost glowed when sunlight hit him. His hair would become a halo, framing his face. 

She’d spent a lot of time imagining a child with that colouring.

“You’re so beautiful,” she said now, watching him return to their room from the shower, his hair still damp and tousled, small rivulets of water running down his body, his scars both white and black against his skin. 

“Not a word people usually apply to men,” he said, smiling at her.

“Fits you, though,” she said as he sat next to her on their bed, his damp skin leaving a dark mark on their coverlet. She traced her hands over his torso, running her hands along the scar Harry Potter had left, touching other, smaller marks. “I was afraid you would leave me,” she said abruptly. “When the baby died, I was afraid – “

“Never,” he said. “The world could freeze into eternal darkness and I still wouldn’t leave your side. I am yours, through shadows, through fire, through infinite bleakness and infinite joy, always and forever yours.”

“I’m yours too,” she said, her hands still tracing the marks on his skin.

“I know, love,” Draco pulled her into his arms. “I know.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Narcissa Malfoy led Luna to her library and studied the woman, who gave off a deceptive air of utter dottiness. She’d known the girl’s parents, of course, and this apparent cluelessness was nothing new to her. She recalled the girl’s mother had died in a black arts spell gone awry; a clever witch but a bit careless. She suspected this one had learned caution from that.

“Do you know what you’re looking for,” she asked. “I might be able to steer you in the right direction.”

“Oh, general warfare.” Luna shrugged as she wandered, undirected, to the battle magic section and, after putting on a pair of white cotton gloves, began pulling volumes off the shelf. “There’s a bit of a concern the current staff of Aurors might not embrace a peaceful transition of power. I feel we should let them get in a single hit, just to be sure, then wipe them all out with one, tidy spell. None of this hand-to-hand combat silliness. That just gets people hurt. What do you think?”

Narcissa smiled; oh, she liked this girl. She liked her very much. No wonder Blaise Zabini had fallen for her so hard. She’d wondered what it was about Pandora’s goofy daughter the man had found so compelling; now she knew. “I think I’ll tell the elves to interrupt you in a few hours to ensure you get some tea and scones as a bit of a break. Perhaps you’ll share the results of your research with me then.”

Luna glanced up at the ceiling. “Did you mean for that pattern in the plaster to be a Fibonacci spiral?”

Narcissa let herself out without answering. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Percy looked around the barren flat with a growing sense of unease. Hermione had settled herself into an armchair and Draco was standing right behind her, passing his wand from hand to hand. Theo was leaning up against the door, his own wand in his hand, and Blaise was by the kitchen, forming a triangle with the other men and, while he wasn’t actually holding onto his wand it was tucked into a very visible holster.

Percy realized he was the only one who seemed uncomfortable, and that made it worse. Luna was lying on the floor, staring at something only she could see on the ceiling. Pansy was painting her nails, Marcus reading a Quidditch magazine. Daphne was sitting by her sister and Greg, lecturing them on the importance of breastfeeding your baby until Astoria snapped, “Insufficient glandular tissue. Give it a rest, Daph. I’m not _trying _to make your niece stupid. I just can’t make enough milk anymore; she’s too big.”

“Have you tried nettle tea,” Daphne pushed and Astoria snarled, “Until I’m drowning in it. And if you mention dark beer one more time I _will_ hex you.”

“Oatmeal?”

“So help me,” Astoria said, “I will lock you in that room with Harry Potter if you do not stop.”

“Daph,” Theo called out, “come keep me company.” With a muttered, “I’m just trying to help” Daphne joined him at the door and was about to say something when he put a finger on her lips. “Let it go,” he murmured. 

“Why does the only man who can keep her in line have to be gay,” Astoria muttered to Greg, who snickered, then covered the laugh with a coughing fit when he saw Daphne glaring at him.

Draco cleared his throat and Percy tensed still more as everyone turned their attention to Hermione on her ratty throne. “I have a small confession to make,” Hermione said. “Before we move forward with the transition I need to make sure everyone in the inner circle is fully informed of a small lie Draco and I foisted on you all, on the world, when we began Project Take Over the World.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Greg looked worried he hadn’t been keeping up until Astoria whispered something in his ear and he relaxed.

“We both felt using the tension around blood status issues would work to help propel us into power and, while I still intend to exploit that when dealing with the larger world, we’ve decided we need everyone in this inner circle fully cognizant of the truth.”

Greg looked confused again until, again, Astoria murmured to him. Pansy rolled her eyes at their interactions.

Hermione was pushing her sleeve up and baring her scar. Mudblood. Percy looked at it, feeling as confused as Greg, as she said, “This is the truth. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

Luna spoke first. “Did you know that cats and people have approximately 90% of their genes in common?”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Hermione said.

“No, they really do,” Luna propped herself up on her elbow. “You and I share so much DNA that, statistically speaking, we’re the same person. Close enough for government work, certainly.”

“Moving on,” Draco said and Luna sighed and lay back down.

Greg spoke up. “You aren’t a pureblood?” He looked at Draco and said, “You _lied _to me?”

“I realize this is shocking but upon occasion, I do deceive people, yes,” Draco drawled.

Greg frowned and looked at Hermione. “But you’re so powerful. And you’re doing all this stuff to make things better for purebloods. The lands. The parliament.” Astoria leaned over to whisper something to him again but he pushed her away. “I don’t understand.”

“We lied to you,” Hermione said. “We told you I’m something I’m not in order to gain your support. Now, to keep the inner circle trustworthy, we need to ensure you all know the truth and support me anyway.”

“Of course I support you,” Greg shook his head, still trying to fathom what had just happened. “You’re the _Lady_. You’re Alicia’s godmother. You’re… you. You’re amazing and magical and… you aren’t some _mudblood…_”

“I think what she’s saying,” Pansy sneered, “is that that is _exactly_ what she is. She’s some filthy, disgusting…”

“We’ll get back to Pansy,” Hermione said even as Theo hissed in warning, “Pans.”

“Astoria,” Hermione asked.

The woman snorted. “I’ve known for ages.” 

“Daphne?”

“We’ve discussed this, somewhat,” the woman shrugged. “I don’t care about your parents. You can have mine if you want a set of prejudicial, pureblood, interfering gits to call your own. I care about power and results.”

“Percy”

“I,” he stammered, “I didn’t realize anyone thought you weren’t Muggle-born.”

“Out of the loop, as usual,” Pansy muttered. “Idiot.”

“Marcus?”

“Makes sense,” the man shrugged, though his fingers had tightened their grip on the pages of his magazine and the paper crinkled in his hands. “Worked, too. My life is yours.”

“And now Pansy,” Hermione gestured to the woman. She’d put the cap back on her nail polish and was looking around at her fellow conspirators, fury in her eyes. 

“She’s a _mudblood_,” Pansy said. “She’s _filthy_.” She looked at Draco. “How could you?”

“First for power,” he said, “and then for love. And keep calling her a mudblood and I’ll end you.”

“How the mighty have fallen,” Pansy said, standing up. “I won’t be a part of this. There are standards. There are things we do not do, people we do not associate with. Draco,” she turned to him, almost imploring him to understand, “if you wanted to get her to clean your house I’d think that reasonable. I’d even understand wanting to fuck her, as vile as the idea is. But to marry her? Have you no pride in your heritage at all?”

“She’s the brightest witch of our age,” Draco said, one hand placed lightly on Hermione’s tensed shoulder, “and the force bringing us all into power. Bringing _my heritage – _your heritage - back into power and prominence. Giving _our people_ back their lands and monies, putting _our families_ back into control of the parliament. She’s the bloody Lady of the Lake, Pansy, and I mean that a little more literally than you probably realize. She’s going to pass the mantle of kingship on, anoint a dynasty. She’s _ours._”

“She’s not mine,” Pansy said. “Not if she’s a mudblood. It’s as if you were fucking an animal. No, even an animal wouldn’t do that, even _animals_, Draco, know to stick to their own kind.” She headed for the door. “I’m done.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave.” Theo had quietly pushed Daphne out of the way and had his wand pointed at Pansy. Daphne looked at him, looked at her long-time friend, and slowly pulled out her own wand and leveled it at the woman. One at a time every person in the room, save Hermione, turned his or her wand on Pansy, even Percy, though his shook in his hand, even Marcus.

“Did you think ‘my life is yours’ was just a pretty turn of phrase,” Blaise asked, his voice sad but unyielding.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Pansy said. “You’re going to choose that mudblood over me?”

“You’re so pure, Pansy,” Hermione said, an almost mad lilt in her voice. “So very pure. But what does your purity matter to me? What will your death matter? Can it bring back my son? Can it?”

“Your filthy half-blood son,” Pansy said and, for a moment, no one breathed.

“May I?” Draco asked, fury roiling through his quiet words and, when Hermione nodded, he sent a quick _avada_ at Pansy and she dropped to the floor, shock still in her eyes.

“Well,” Hermione said, rather briskly, with more than a hint of manic energy lurking in the corners of her words, “That was unfortunate, if not quite unexpected. Theo, would you handle body disposal and Daphne, would you get out the refreshments. I think after that everyone might want a drink.”

“I swear, if you offer me dark beer,” Astoria muttered as Daphne passed her on the way to the kitchen and Hermione laughed and, with that sound, the room relaxed a bit.

“How about champagne?” Hermione asked. “Narcissa Malfoy sent some over from the Manor and even Draco looked impressed when he saw it. And I think Theo brought over some kind of apple brandy or something.”

“Sounds perfect. The champagne, I mean. Not whatever weird apple liquor Theo found.”

Greg raised his hand as if they were in school and, when Hermione acknowledged him, said, “What’s my job now?”

“Umm… to eat the canapés and drink the champagne?” she said, a slight question in her voice.

“No, I mean – “ he scrubbed at his face with his hands. “I said… that word. I don’t want you to think I’m… I’m still…”

“You have my god-daughter to raise,” Hermione said, “a seat to take on the Wizengamot and – “

“Shit,” Astoria interrupted her. “Pansy was handling the Wizengamot project. Does anyone know where her notes are?”

“I have a copy,” Luna said from the floor, holding the abandoned bottle of enamel in her hands. “I duplicated them before I went to talk Neville into taking a seat. Successfully, I might add. One virtuous man giving you the veneer of not running a puppet show. Does anyone mind if I take Pansy’s nail polish? I’ve been looking for a sparkly blue one like this for a while.”

“Don’t worry, Greg,” Hermione said. “I know you.”

“Who’s going to take that over?” Astoria asked, still focused on the Wizengamot issue.

“Blaise and Luna. Between them, he can tackle the more stiff-necked purebloods and she can charm people like Neville.”

“Okay,” Daphne came back into the room with an open bottle in one hand and a tray of flutes balanced on the other. “Blaise is getting the food. Who wants a drink? Theo, get over here and help me pour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What does your purity matter to me? What does your death matter? What does nullity after nullity matter to me? Blessed are the crops, because my sons lie beneath them; blessed is the rain, because it moistens their faces.” ~ Frederico Garcia Lorca, about a mother’s grief after losing her son.


	40. Chapter 40

Draco passed Hermione, sitting at their table, spooning one section of grapefruit after another into her mouth.

“I love you,” he said, brushing his hand over her hair. “So much.”

She took his hand and held it against her cheek, leaned into him. “I love you, too,” she said and he stood there for a while, just feeling his hand against her face and blessing whatever series of chances had brought this woman into his life, had led her to love him. 

. . . . . . . .

Percy sat with his father and wrapped his hands around the mug the man had handed him. His sister was gone. His brother was gone. Maybe – maybe – he could save the rest of his family. Maybe he could get them to listen to him.

Of course, he’d been bloody well _told_ to get his father to listen to him about this. He hated that he’d squirmed like an excited puppy at Hermione’s attention, at her quietly stated confidence he could do this for her. He hated that he felt almost addicted to her smiles, to that cool approval she sometimes meted out.

He’d never even really _liked_ the girl. She’d been just another brat underfoot. Why did he suddenly find her so compelling that, as much as her inner circle terrified him (and fascinated him, a little voice whispered), he’d do anything for her? He’d watched her okay a woman’s murder in front of his own eyes, he’d held his own wand on the woman, and he still worshipped her. 

“Dad,” he said, his voice strained. “You need to come out against Kingsley.”

Arthur Weasley blinked at him and said, “But he is a member of the Order, son.”

“She beat him,” Percy said. “In a fair election, and he’s trying to cast doubt on that in the press. All the little asides about how Hermione’s not competent anymore because of what Ron did…”

“Well, is she?’ Arthur looked at his son. “Isn’t she in the midst of some kind of breakdown? Do you really think she can hold the reins of an entire government?”

“She’s fine,” Percy said. “I just saw her. She’s sad, of course. But she’s not out of her mind or anything. “

“It’s just…” Arthur trailed off and though of the orphanage. Of the farm aid. Of the way he’d allowed Muggle artifact registration fees to be skimmed off into slush accounts by Kingsley for various illegal programs and never said a word. “I’m sorry, Percy. I have to remain loyal to another Order member.”

Percy nearly shook with frustration. You’ll die, he wanted to scream. She’ll kill you if you don’t do this. She’ll kill everyone between herself and that throne and all you have to do is denounce a man who cheated and lied and stole and…

Like I did, he thought.

Like you did.

“Dad,” he tried again. “She beat him in a fair election; people chose her. Do you really want to try to undermine the will of the people.”

“People don’t always know what’s best for them,” Arthur Weasley said. “This subject is closed, Percy. I have a new radio – something called a transistor. Do you want to see it?”

“I’m so sorry,” Percy said, pulling his wand out and hating himself. “So very sorry. _Imperius._”

. . . . . . . . . .

_Arthur Weasley Condemns Kingsley Shacklebolt_

_In a shocking move, Arthur Weasley, long time Order of the Phoenix member, has turned on his fellow Order member and current Minister of Magic, Kinglsey Shacklebolt._

_Shacklebolt was beaten by Granger-Malfoy in November’s election and has recently made several public statements that he does not feel Lady Granger-Malfoy is competent to take her duly elected position._

_“I’ve known Hermione since she was a child,” Arthur Weasley was quoted as saying, “and I’m sure she’ll make an excellent Minister. I am still devastated by what happened to her, by what my son did to her, but she’s clearly ready to assume power. More, she was fairly elected. I don’t think we should attempt to overrule the will of the people.”_

_Shacklebolt could not be reached for comments. _

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo didn’t recall giving Daphne a key to his flat but apparently he had as she walked in without knocking and tossed her bag onto his couch before flopping next to it. “Did you know,” she started, without even saying hello, “that a human being can drown in only two inches of water?”

“I did know that,” Theo said, eyeing her. “Don’t you worry you might walk in and find me _in flagrante delicto_ or something? Could be embarrassing for you.”

“I don’t get embarrassed,” Daphne snorted. “Do any of us? After the things Blaise used to do in the common room at school? And if you’re so concerned about my sensibilities you should pull back a little bit on the drunken reminiscing. You’ve done some things I didn’t realize were biologically possible; you drew me diagrams, Theo.”

“Fair point,” Theo settled into a seat across from her and eyed the woman. “Why are you here?”

She sighed. “I’ve been working with Astoria all afternoon on the orphanage thing. Greg is exhausting to be around and I wanted to enjoy the company of someone with a brain.”

“I’m flattered,” he said. “But.. and I don’t want to be rude here… why don’t you just get a boyfriend? Might be more fulfilling in the long run than me.”

“Who?” Daphne snorted again. “Percy? Too weasely for me, plus, well… you know. George? Too virtuous. And Marcus wouldn’t exactly meet my ‘someone with a brain’ requirements. Anyway, I think I’m too wedded to power to have time for someone who might actually want me to care about him every hour of every day. I’d forget his birthday or something and then he’d be all put-out and I’d be expected to waste energy soothing him.” She started to rummage in her bag for something. “Not my cup of tea.”

“But you’re so into all the baby things,” Theo said. “All your weird obsession with nutrition and shit. Don’t you want a baby of your own?”

“Hell no,” Daphne pulled out some sheets of paper, rolled and held shut with some neatly tied twine, and tossed them over to him. “Other people’s kids are great but I’ve been led to understand one is expected to get up with one’s own baby every night and I like my sleep. Plus, they’re sticky. And the nappies. And the crying. There was a period of time Alicia cried whenever someone wasn’t walking with her and that girl’s got some lungs on her. Astoria and Greg took shifts walking her almost every hour of the day. Can you imagine me doing that?”

Theo shuddered because, no, he really couldn’t imagine her – any more than him – being that excited about baby care. Still making a face at the idea, he unrolled the rough sketches of an advertising campaign. 

“You did it the smart way with Æthel, skipping that whole ‘baby’ stage, ” Daphne was continuing on as he looked over her work on how to make adopting an orphan an honor. “She’s brilliant and adorable and I’d not want to be on her bad side.”

“True that. This is good,” he pointed at the papers.

“Thanks.” Daphne stood up and headed towards his kitchen. “I’m going to put water on for tea. Want some?” At his nod, she laughed and added, “By the way, were you hinting I ought to stop popping over, that you’ve got some boyfriend in the wings I’m freaking out?”

Theo had pulled out a quill and was starting to make editing notations on her papers. “Hardly,” he said, without looking up. “You aren’t the only one wedded to power, you know. I have plenty of casual friends I can visit for a roll or two, as you well know, but between my ancestral house, Æthel and Hermione I have neither time nor interest in some other emotional entanglement. And you, of course,” he added the last politely.

“We’re both bloody sociopaths,” Daphne said from his small kitchen and he laughed again.

“Takes one to know one.” 

“I do adore you, you know,” Daphne said, “but I’m not in some kind of delusion where I’m pining or anything…”

“I know,” he was still editing, not looking up. “Friends for life, right?”

“Absolutely.” She paused. “You’ve moved the sugar; I can’t find it.”

“I might have used it all up.”

She swore at him from the kitchen and he laughed but couldn’t quite shake the thought this woman would be the perfect mother for Æthel. But how could he ask her to marry him given it would be a wholly political alliance and she no more needed more political power than he wanted a female romantic partner.

He exhaled and bent down back over the papers and pushed the problem out of his mind.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Blaise,” Luna said and he smiled at her. “I want a greenhouse.”

“Done,” he said. “As soon as we’ve got the estates back in all our little pureblooded hands I’ll have one put in for you. Do you want an orangerie as well?”

. . . . . . . . . .

The message was unmistakable as all the Aurors stood around the bodies of their missing colleagues. Some people wanted to avenge their deaths, to track down the people who'd killed the six men and left them piled outside their department like so much debris; it wasn't as if there were any mystery to the culprits. Some recognized that that was suicide. Several people resigned immediately.

"I won't work for her," one man said, "but to oppose her is to die. I'm going to go raise chickens and goats and make cheese someplace far, far away from any political problems."

"You can't _do_ this," another man said, looking at the dead men, feeling sick. "You can't just intimidate people into doing what you want. You can't just murder people who oppose you."

"Like you can't refuse to protect a woman whose election you didn't like?" One man asked, very quietly. "They took an oath, we all did, and they let their political views influence how they did their job."

"Do you really expect us to back a woman who'd do THIS against one of our own?" someone else asked, turning to the man who’d just spoken.

"I think," he said, "that you'd better decide whether you can support the new regime or get out of here while you still can."

Then, in more silence, they all looked at the men, their colleagues. They'd been tortured, that much was clear. No one had bothered to even try to hide the marks on their bodies. That was chilling enough but what made even hardened Aurors shudder was that they'd all finally died by drowning, their bloated and swollen faces giving evidence to that. 

And there was a water lily shoved in each man's mouth. 

"I hate her," one man said, his voice low.

"I wouldn't let anyone hear you say that," another cautioned. "Go ask around. People love her. She's the People's Lady. We're just a brute squad."

"She did _this_," the man protested.

"You think people will care?"

More silence.

. . . . . . . . . .

“George,” Draco stuck his head into the shop. “I need a favor.”

“What?” 

  
Draco looked at the man. He seemed to be tired and drained; the color had almost leeched from his hair and the vibrant humor that the man had carried forward, even after the war, was gone. I’m afraid, Draco thought, we might have broken this one. I’ll have to ask Hermione if she wants to try to save him or just let him go.

“I need some candies.” George waved his hand, rather desultorily, at a display case filled with chocolates and Draco ignored him to lean up against the counter.

“You okay,” he asked and George shrugged. 

“My mother,” he began and Draco shook his head. 

“Not buying that, mate. You’d met my father. One bad parent isn’t enough to throw a man into quite this much of a funk.”

“It’s just been a rough year,” George settled down onto a stool. “Ginny. Ron. Now I find out my mother’s known about the… she took money from _kids_, Draco. And she doesn’t even feel bad about it. She took money so she and Ginny could go to fancy restaurants, so Ron could gallivant around. I just… that wasn’t who she was, you know?”

“The war broke us all in different ways,” Draco said, almost feeling sympathetic. “I’m sure she’s suffering for her sins, even if you don’t see it.”

George shook his head. “She doesn’t seem to care. Said the world would have been better off if someone had killed Riddle early and it would be better off if someone killed –“

He stopped and looked at the expression on Draco’s face. “She doesn’t mean it, of course. She’s just talking.”

Draco struggled to control himself and spit out, in a mostly calm tone, “Anyway, some bratty kid is giving Theo’s girl a hard time at school and she wants us to send her a package of chocolates that, when the girl steals them, as she apparently inevitably will, will make her sick. Can you help me pick out some things that don’t scream “Weasley’s Wheezes” but will still make this girl decide to never, ever take Æthel’s things again?”

“Yeah.”’ George pulled himself up. “You’ll have to repackage them. Anything from us – from me – is immediately confiscated.”

“I can do that,” Draco said. 

. . . . . . . . .

“You killed Ginny.” Harry looked at Hermione who’d settled herself into a chair in his room. His cell.

“Technically,” Hermione said, “she killed herself. Drank herself to death because of the revelations of your infidelities.” She tipped her head back to look at Draco who sent her a look so filled with adoration it chilled Harry to the core. Who had this woman become, this friend from his past, that she could hold a man like Draco Malfoy in the palm of her hand. “Of course,” she was looking back at him now. “I did turn her into an alcoholic so I can accept some moral culpability for that.”

“Why?” Harry’s voice shook. “She was your friend.”

“Really?” Hermione asked. “She called me any number of names, wanted nothing to do with me as soon as Ron and I split. She was pretty vile to me, really. Now, Luna is my friend, but Ginny?”

“But to kill her,” he asked, crumbling again. “Why?”

“It was politically expedient,” she said and he shivered. “Her public self-destruction put the proverbial nail in the coffin of your political career. You shouldn’t have set yourself up against me, Harry.”

“You’re a monster,” he whispered.

“Then so are you,” she said, unmoved. “I gave your wife a tool and suggested she use it. You gave your friend a tool, your cloak, and suggested he use it. She killed herself with the tool I gave her, though surely you could all see she had a drinking problem and chose not to do anything about it. Ron, well, he tried to kill me, killed my son. He used the tool and the encouragement you gave him to do it. You’re no more a white hat than I am, Harry. Not anymore. I just don’t bloody well lie to myself about it.”

She stood and looked down at him. “I’m still not sure whether I shouldn’t just kill you. Draco has argued for your life, which is so unlike him I’m inclined to listen.”

Draco held the door for her and, after she passed through it, he looked back at Harry. “I’d suggest apologizing for the way you aided Ron. I’d suggest feeling some real regret. Keep telling her she’s a monster and she might listen and kill you where you sit. I only have so much influence.” 

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo and Hannah stood in her kitchen watching their children fly brooms far too quickly around the frozen yard. Their tentative friendship, built first via owl and now during this strange play date, was still uncertain. All they had in common, really, was their children and a passionate loathing of the orphanage that had housed them. Neville had escaped to his greenhouse, stumbling through greetings as quickly as he could before remembering seedlings that needed attention. 

Theo, Hannah thought, was far less approachable than Blaise Zabini. The latter had her eternal gratitude for shepherding them through the adoption process. He and Luna were adorable and in love and, whatever his school affiliation had been, he was now an easy man to be around. Theo was not an easy man to be around. He oozed a kind of quiet confidence that Hannah had never had. She was sure that if Theodore Nott had declared wearing purple feathers in one's hair to be the height of cool it would have taken less than twenty-four hours for everyone in his orbit to be decked out in purple. If she announced wearing purple feathers to be fashionable everyone would have laughed. The only thing that made him bearable, really, was that he was so obviously both besotted and flummoxed by his daughter. They'd arrived with her nearly dragging the lanky man behind her, a man the girl had abandoned as soon as she'd seen Dillan.

The way the children had clung to each other had broken Hannah's heart. She'd realized, immediately, that Narcissa Malfoy had been right; these kids had grown up together, had spent years protecting each other in less than ideal circumstances. Their loyalty to one another was absolute and they'd missed one another terribly.

She decided on the spot to adopt another boy. Maybe more. A big family would be wonderful.

Now the children chased one another, too fast, too high, and she and Theo stood in the kitchen holding mugs of tea and watching them. "I try not to worry," he muttered. "I remember all the things I did at that age and how I always emerged unscathed and I try really hard not to worry."

"I used to run along a rock retaining wall at my gran's estate," Hanna said, thinking of her own childhood antics. "If I'd fallen I would have, at the very least, broken an arm. And I was usually alone so I would have had to get myself back up to the main house by myself."

"Did you ever fall?" Theo slanted a look at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Never," she admitted, her knuckles white as she watched the children play what seemed to be some horrifying game of chicken with a tree. "Are those brooms even supposed to go that fast?"

"Probably not," Theo said. "Æthel's a dab hand at adjusting spells and Hermione's constantly teaching her little tricks."

"Oh, great," Hannah muttered. Then, looking out the window rather than at the man next to her she asked, "How is she?"

Theo sighed. "She's... better. Draco tells me she's better. She seems better. She's physically totally recovered - "

"Will she be able to conceive again?" Hannah interrupted him and, when he nodded, she sighed with relief.

"But she's," he sighed again and searched for the right word. "She's wounded. And she's much colder than she was before. She was a good person, mostly, before this happened. Now?" He shrugged and looked at his hostess. "You're a good person, Hannah. I'm not. Never have been."

Hannah made to politely demur and he held up a hand. "I'm not a raving lunatic, don't worry. But I'm not good. Not like you are. Not like your husband is. The ends will always justify the means to me and you don't need to pretend that's not true to spare my feelings. You're not an idiot; you know what I'm like, or you can figure it out easily enough."

Hannah shook her head at that. "You adopted that girl; you adore her. You aren't some kind of storybook monster."

Theo laughed at that. "No, we've all had enough of that, I think. Still," he sighed and looked back out at the children, "I've seen her change since the attack, and she's become... different. More like me, less like you. I don't know if it's just a temporary thing, spawned by grief, or whether she's changing. Whether she's changed."

"Losing a child changes you," Hannah said quietly.

"I doubt it usually changes a person quite this much," Theo muttered but didn't argue with his hostess. "This is good tea," he added, looking down at his mug. "Thank you."

"What are they doing?" Hannah asked, and Theo looked back to see Dillan kneeling in front of Æthel, who was - oh bloody hell - dubbing him as if he were a knight with her wand.

"I think," Theo said, wishing he could go outside and throttle both of them, "we probably don't want to know."


	41. Chapter 41

Æthel, home from school for the winter break, looked like a princess as she twirled and ran and ducked through Narcissa Malfoy’s ballroom. Narcissa had woven subtle pins into her hair that caught the light and hinted at a circlet around her head without actually being even the simplest crown. The girl stopped to talk to each adult she came across, her impeccable manners charming even the most jaded. Narcissa had drilled her on which of school chums belonged to which families and if she was perhaps a bit warmer to the parents of her closer friends, well, that was to be expected. 

Daphne and Hermione stood together, watching the ebb and flow of the groups in the room. “A Yule Party”, Hermione had said. “We’ll invite all the orphans as well as our closer supporters.”

“Not closest,” Draco had asked with a smile and she’d leaned into him and rubbed her face against his shirt. 

“Well, I’m sure they’ll all think they’re the closest,” Hermione had laughed and now they were here. Orphans, inner circle, Wizengamot members and people soon to be Wizengamot members, all mingling and drinking the excellent punch Narcissa had insisted they serve.

“It’s a children’s party, right?” she’d asked, a poised smile on her face, and Hermione had smiled back. Crackers sat piled in baskets for all the children to rip apart and packages were heaped under a tree to be taken to the orphanage for the children to open on Yule itself. A ballerina dressed as the Sugar Plum Fairy was leading a small class of giggling girls who spun and spun and spun until they collapsed on the floor, only to get up and spin again while powerful adults looked on in amusement.

“Æthel’s got an admirer,” Hermione said, watching Dillan trail after the girl and Daphne laughed.

“Only eleven and already collecting boys. Theo’s going to have his hands full.”

Hermione laughed too and, taking a sip from her glass of punch, said, “If I were to make a request of you – “

“Anything. Of course,” Daphne said.

“You might not care for it.”

Daphne just tilted her head to the side and looked at Hermione who studied her before nodding and turning her attention back to the room.

“I want you to marry Theo, be mother to that girl.”

Daphne almost dropped her punch glass, the punch glass that, because this was Narcissa Malfoy’s house, was crystal and probably worth more than she paid in monthly rent.

"Theo doesn't like girls," Daphne said, deciding to start with the most obvious objection to their theoretical marriage. "And, just as an aside, can I tell you how amusing it is you and my father have the exact same plan?"

"He likes you," Hermione said, dismissing the objection. "And, besides, I'm not suggesting you bed him, just that you wed him. Surely you're both smart enough to be able to make arrangements for discrete liaisons." Hermione paused. "I am kind of horrified that your father and I agree about anything, I have to admit."

"If you insist my life is, of course, yours," Daphne said with formal courtesy. "But I would like to understand _why_ you want me to enter into a marriage of political convenience."

"Because I trust you," Hermione said.

"While that's gratifying," Daphne said, "it doesn't exactly clarify the matter." She watched Æthel, who'd accumulated a few more followers trailing after her like baby ducklings, possibly because she was snagging them treats from tables they couldn't easily reach, possibly because she'd been the oldest of the orphans and the rest of them adored her, saw her, not unreasonably, as the source of brooms, treats and Yule presents. "Should I stop her from passing out all the petit fours?"

Hermione laughed. "No. Let her give out treats; it’s a good habit. It may be petit fours now but it'll be rings soon enough."

"Rings?" Daphne had the bad feeling she'd fallen down into one of those obscure reference moments she and Theo had dubbed 'Luna wells' as in 'She fell down the Luna well and stopped making sense.' 

"Never mind," Hermione said and Daphne thought 'definitely a Luna well'.

"I trust Theo implicitly, of course," Hermione added. "I need her to be able to navigate the cruelest currents of pureblood politics without misstepping and Theo, as much as I love him, can't help with things that are - "

"Girl-specific." Daphne sighed, and then admitted, "He and I have talked about this a bit, about whether Narcissa's help is enough to give her the skills she needs."

Hermione nodded, watching the girl, watching the power players in the room watch the girl. "I don't think she is. I could be wrong, of course, but I'd rather err on the side of too much training rather than not enough. I want her raised to rule. She's our fairy tale orphan princess. The orphan part comes easily; the princess part might be harder and there’ll be people waiting to cut her down at every point and our culture is so conservative and we’ve been playing to that. She needs a traditional family to appeal to some of the more old fashioned elements."

Daphne looked at Hermione for a moment and let all the pieces fall into place. "I would be honored," she said at last. "Thank you for trusting me this much." She paused. "Does Theo know?"

"I think he's figuring it out," Hermione said as Luna joined them. She'd woven so many poinsettias into her hair she looked like a giant, red puffball. It was both unattractive and oddly humorous when combined with the bias-cut green dress she had on.

"You look ridiculous," Daphne said, eyeing the woman. 

"I know," Luna said complacently. "It seemed like a good idea and then I got it all done and looked at it and realized it didn't work at all but it was time to go so I left it."

They all stood and watched Ethel and Daphne finally asked, "What did you mean by giving rings later, anyway?"

Luna raised her eyebrows and glanced at Hermione. "Who's going to be the ring-giver?"

"Æthel," said Daphne, still confused.

"Good choice," Luna said.

Fucking Luna-wells, thought Daphne.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise passed out the crackers one at a time. The older children were quivering as they held back for just a few more painful moments. One of the youngest was chewing on the edge of his. Neville Longbottom was kneeling with one boy, his arms around the child, helping him get his hands positioned on each side of his cracker. “Okay,” said Theo. “On the count of three. One. Two – .” He didn’t even get the ‘three’ out before, with shrieks of joy, the children pulled the goodies apart and scrambled for the cheap trinkets and chocolates that fell out, along with confetti, and littered the floor.

Narcissa Malfoy stood with her formidable daughter-in-law as they watched not the children but rather the other adults watching the children. 

“Good punch,” Hermione said, sipping from hers.

“I thought so,” the older woman said. “Tradition always plays well.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco pulled Hermione away from Daphne and murmured, “Come dance with me,” and, as a small ensemble began to play, the pair opened the dance floor. Hermione rested her head on his shoulder for a moment.

“Tired of performing?” he asked and she lifted her head and smiled at him.

“Be sure to dance with Æthel,” was all she said.

“I will, my lovely, plotting one.”

“And Eustacia Parkinson.”

“Of course.”

He passed her to Greg, who cut in with the graceful motions of a man who’d been afraid to skip out on his dancing classes as a child. “Milady,” he said as he took her hand.

“It’s always a delight to see you, Greg,” she said. “Are you having a nice time?”

“Very much, thank you,” he murmured and flushed. “Astoria sends her regrets. Alicia is teething and…”

“I’m sure we miss her. Tell her Daphne should have some news for her soon.”

Greg looked over at his sister-in-law, who was dancing with Theo, and said, “You must be joking.”

“I never joke about politics,” Hermione said with complacency and Greg blinked a few times and didn’t speak for the rest of the dance.

Hermione danced with Dillan, scooping him up and swinging him so he shrieked with joy, before passing him to Hannah and turning about the floor with Neville.

“So you’re to join the Wizengamot,” she said and he nodded. 

“I’ll not be your puppet,” he said, repeating what he’d said to Luna and Hermione looked at him with steady eyes until he flushed.

“I don’t need another puppet,” she finally said and he squinted at the way a veil seemed to lift, at the way as if, for a brief moment, things were brighter and clearer and sharper. 

“What do you need?” he asked her. “What do you want?”

“A sanctuary,” she said and then the music ended and she made a graceful curtsey and excused herself to find Draco.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hannah had watched him all night. At first she’d thought she had to be mistaken, that Greg Goyle couldn’t possibly be at this party, couldn’t be welcomed here.

She watched him get teased by a group of small boys into carrying them on his shoulders and as one child after another played piggy-back with her tormenter she gripped the punch glass more and more tightly. Neville watched her, watched Greg, and asked, “Was he one of the ones?”

Though, of course, he knew. 

Seventh year. The Carrows. Let’s all practice our unforgiveables on students in detention, they’d say, cackling with barely sane glee. Half-bloods like her, well, they got detention all the time. Dress code violations. She’d gotten a detention for a dress code violation because one sock had slipped while standing next to a pureblood girl in a skirt so short you could see the curve of her arse. Walking too fast. Walking too slow. Raise your hand too often and you didn’t know your place. Don’t raise it enough and you were lazy. 

And Greg Goyle had _liked_ practicing unforgiveables. He’d been good at it. It was the first thing in his life he’d ever been good at, she suspected, and watching him now, playing with children, she remembered being on the end of his wand. Remembered him saying, “Ask me to go easy on you, halfie.”

She remembered how much the crucio curse hurt. How it felt like fire and like the skin was being stripped from her back and like drowning all at once. How she’d begged. How they’d all begged. How it hadn’t mattered.

She remembered the Healer saying, grief in her voice, “It was just too many curses. I’m so sorry. I don’t think you’ll ever be able to carry to term.” She remembered how she’d cried, how she’d sat in that office and wept until she didn’t think she could choke out another sob.

She stood now and watched Greg Goyle, fear battling anger, both keeping her frozen, until he scooped Dillan up for a ride and then she was there in front of him. “Don’t you touch my son, you monster,” she hissed and snatched the boy away from the man.

Greg looked at her, first confusion than guilt dancing across his face.

“So you do remember me,” Hannah said, glaring at him before she dropped to her knees and hugged Dillan. “Are you okay, honey? Did that man hurt you?”

The boy looked confused and glanced from her to Neville, who’d come over as well. “Get my coat,” Hannah said, her voice tight. “We’re leaving.” The man nodded and strode off while Hannah sheltered her child from Greg with her body.

“I… I’m sorry,” the man said, swallowing hard. “I…”

“Save it,” Hannah said. “I’m not interested.”

As she and Neville left, Dillan looking back longingly at the candy table, Draco leaned in towards Hermione. “Is that going to be a problem?”

She shrugged and said, “I’m not sure,” before handing her empty glass to a passing caterer and gliding off to chat with Eustacia Parkinson.

. . . . . . . . . .

Greg stared at himself in the mirror in Narcissa Malfoy’s lounge. He’d thrown up everything he’d eaten and splashed water on his face and he just stared at himself now.

He could hear his own voice saying, “Beg me to go easy on you, halfie.”

He knew he was the weakest of Hermione’s inner circle. Knew what Draco and Blaise and Theo did to relax. Knew he wouldn’t be able to do it anymore.

Beg me, halfie.

Didn’t change the fact he had done it.

She’d begged him. They all had.

He’d felt so proud. He, the dumb one, the worthless sidekick, had finally been _good_ at something. 

Beg me.

He stumbled back towards the toilet, heaving again. 

Beg me.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione stood at her dresser, staring into the mirror and pulling the pins out of her hair one at a time. As her hair was released from its prison of pureblood respectability Draco moved up behind her and ran his hands up her arms, across her shoulders and into her hair; he started to massage her scalp as he murmured, “I do adore your hair, especially down.”

“Since when?” she murmured, preening under his fingers. Having her hair pulled up that tightly hurt.

“I’m going to claim since always,” he said and she laughed as she turned in his arms.

“Liar.” But the word was said with affection, not malice, and he wrapped himself around and breathed in the scent of her. 

“To love you is to love your hair,” he protested. “Also the way you leave the tea bags out on the counter and your inexplicable fondness for Hobnobs.”

“Now I _know_ you’re lying.”

They both stood for a moment, resting in the quiet and easy comfort they gave each other. The room flickered in and out of clarity, lit mainly by the fireplace Draco had laid and started as soon as they’d returned from the party, and shadows lunged at them both then retreated back across the wooden floor, only to move forward again as waves beating at the shore. He began to run his hands up and down the hair in question.

“Keep that up and I might actually start to purr,” she said and he began to grin.

“I could make you purr in other ways?” he suggested and when she made a ‘mmm’ing sound against his chest he started to unzip the dress she’d worn and slipped it over her shoulders. One it had dropped to the floor he stepped back and looked at her. She’d kicked her heels off the moment she’d walked in the door and a run was already working it’s way up her black stocking, the tear like a gash along the curve of her leg. “Garters?” he asked running a finger along the satin strap and dropping to his knees before her, his tongue already tracing the line where her stockings ended and her skin began.

“I know you like them,” she said, her voice mischievous for the first time in so long, the first time in so damn long. 

“Naughty,” he said, glancing up at her. “To not tell me. I might have enjoyed some of those interminable conversations more if I’d been able to hold a picture of you like this in my mind while pretending to pay attention to discourse on tax policy and the like.”

She backed away towards the bed and, on his knees, he followed her, rising only to join her when she pulled herself up to the mattress. “You say ‘naughty’ like it’s a bad thing,” she said.

“You are an evil, evil woman,” he said.

“It’s what you love about me,” she said and a smile tugged at his mouth. 

“Oh,” he said, “True enough, but hardly the only reason. I just told you, after all, that I love your hair along with your teabags and biscuits.”

“Mmm,” she said. “What else?”

He pulled her into his lap and began to nuzzle the curve of her neck. “This,” he murmured. “I love this quite a lot.” She inhaled and tipped her head away to give him more access to her skin and he added. “And that.” He slid a hand down to the garters he’d been admiring earlier and began to run a finger along the strap where it ran up her leg. “These too.” He tugged at her knickers. “I like these less and think they should go.”

“Do you now?”

Her tone was teasing but she started to wriggle, out of them anyway and, when they got caught on the garters and were stuck Draco growled in mock frustration and used a quick spell to cut them away. “Now this,” he murmured after he’d tossed them to the side and returned his attention to the witch in his lap, “This I like.”

She appeared, based on her gasp, to agree and they passed some time after that in perfect accord.


	42. Chapter 42

Molly rubbed at her head as she leaned up against her headboard. She really needed to go see a Healer; these headaches were getting out of control; this was the third one this week.

"Another one?" Arthur asked, settling next to her on the bed. 

"Yes," she snapped. Being in this much pain made her less patient than usual with her bumbling spouse; she loved him, of course, always had, but he could be so _vague_. "And why did you turn on Kingsley? I swear, between you and Percy..."

"What's Percy done?" Arthur kept his voice level and patient.

"He's released dozen of memos highlighting what the papers are calling 'malfeasance'," Molly said. 

"Percy did that?" Arthur asked, squinting at her as she pressed her thumbs into her temples. He’d skimmed the article but hadn’t realized Percy had been the leak. "You really should see someone about these headaches, love. Do you want me to make an appointment"

"I don't _know_ if he did it," Molly admitted ignoring his nagging about the headaches even though she’d already come to the same conclusion. "The paper just said an 'anonymous source' had sent them the documentation but I couldn't help but notice his name was missing from everything that they published so if it wasn't him it was someone who went out of his way to keep Percy's name out of the scandal."

"That seems like a good thing," Arthur said. “Percy can’t afford to lose his job.” He left unstated that neither could he and one more Weasley-centric scandal and he probably would. 

"I suppose," Molly conceded.

"He tells me Hermione plans to keep him on in her administration, that his job is safe. He told me he'll keep my job safe too."

"Oh, so I should be grateful to that little bitch?" Molly asked, nearly snarling.

"I don't understand why you hate her so much," Arthur said, looking at his wife. "So she ended things with Ron, so we aren't close to her anymore. That's no reason to hate the woman. He _attacked_ her, Molly. I'd think you'd be sympathetic to a woman who lost a child in such a gruesome way."

"Don't defend her," Molly snapped. "She's torn this family apart."

"I don't see how," Arthur murmured but, at Molly's quelling look, stopped talking and pulled out a copy of the Prophet and began to re-read the article that destroyed any hope Kingsley had had of being a respected elder statesman.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco looked over the most recent version of the changeling project reports before handing them over to Hermione. “This looks good,” he said. “They’ve found they need to use larger animals than mice, but larger rodents work just fine and they’ve done a series of tests on already deceased Muggles to test out how well the work holds up to their science. Do you think it’s time for a dry run with an actual living person? Test it out?”

She looked up at him from over the papers and grinned. “Sure. Anyone you want to see disappear?”

“So many choices,” he smirked. “Any personal preferences?”

“Well, one of the older Weasley brothers would be fun but maybe too obvious. I’ll let you choose.”

Draco shrugged. “I’m not averse to being a little obvious now and then. Faction and family, love. The werewolf or the dragon keeper?”

“The werewolf’s local, isn’t he? Why make things complicated?”

“It’s tragic when minor lycanthropy spirals out of control, isn’t it?” Draco put a properly sorrowful look on his face and Hermione clapped her hands in delight. “I’ll kill them all for you,” he said when she stopped. “All of them.”

“Oh,” she said, “surely not George and Percy?”   
  
“Well,” he said, “if you want me to stay my hand, I will.”

“They’re mine,” she said.

“That they are, love,” he said. 

. . . . . . . . . .

“Æthel,” Theo said, his voice as calm as he could make it. “What were you and Dillan doing when you hit him on shoulders with your wand?”

The girl picked at her shortcake and didn’t meet his eyes. “Nothing,” she said and he sighed.

“Want to try again, and this time with the truth?” he asked poking at his own apple tart in frustration. He’d brought the girl out for desserts before sending her back to Hogwarts for the spring term just to have this conversation and he already had a bad feeling about it.

“It’s nothing,” she insisted, then muttered at his look, “Just a loyalty oath.”

“You accepted his fealty, didn’t you,” Theo said, wanting to tear out his hair. He was quite _quite_ sure this hadn’t been mentioned in any of the parenting books Daphne kept bringing him. Contraceptive charms, and the horrifyingly early age at which they should be taught, yes. The importance of introducing foods to picky eaters over and over and over again, yes. But what to do if your eleven year old accepted a medieval, and suddenly modern, loyalty oath from a boy half her age? One that may well be magically binding? The books had skipped that problem. “Do you even understand what that means?”

“It’s what you gave Aunt ‘Mione,” she said, still not looking up. 

“Yes,” he said, remembering to breathe with some effort. “It is. And do you know what that means?”

“It means you have to do what she says.” 

“Yes,” he said again. “It means I’ve given my life over to her to do with as she will. It means I have to fight for her. And it means she has certain reciprocal obligations towards me. She has to listen to me, she has to honor me. She has to supply me with, well, traditionally it would have been land but we’ve rather settled on power though I have full confidence she’ll be restoring my estates to me. It’s not the kind of oath bloody _children_ give one another, it’s a serious commitment. She’s done it with three of us, Æthel, _three! _Even in the inner circle only Draco, Blaise and I have that level of bond to her.”

“I’m going to do with every child in the orphanage,” Æthel said, her words very quiet but, Theo thought, utterly implacable.

“No,” he said.

“Yes.”

Theo looked at his daughter and sighed. “Not until they’re of age. Not until _you’re _of age. No more.”

She poked at her shortcake some more and he wanted to swear at her. “I mean it, Æthel.”

“Not until we’re of age,” she agreed, then flashed him a smile and he had the horrible, humiliating realization he’d been played by the chit. That he’d just agreed to let her accumulate twenty-two vassals and all she had to do was wait until she was seventeen to start. 

He needed to talk to Daphne. He was in over his head.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo pushed his way into Daphne's flat and then stood, shifting from foot to foot, not sure what to do, as she looked up.

She was running her hand through her hair and he watched, astonished, as she put a finger in her mouth and bit off a loose cuticle.

"I need to talk to you," he said.

She blurted out, "I need to talk," at almost the same moment.

"You first," they both said and then laughed.

“Hermione wants us to get married," Daphne said then, at the look on his face, she hurried on. "Not in a romantic way, I don't have any illusion... I wouldn't even want... I mean, gross… it's just... wizarding culture is so conservative and she wants me to do the thing about getting Æthel groomed to know all the pureblood bullshite from the female perspective and..."

"Oh thank Merlin," Theo breathed out. "I am just lost with this girl. She dubbed Dillan her knight at a fucking play date, Daph."

"You aren't upset?" she asked, biting at another finger. "I mean..."

"Fuck no. It’s not like you have any kind of expectations or anything." Theo crossed the room and sank into her couch. "This couch is purgatorial, by the way. You're moving to my place and leaving this couch here with the green counters where it belongs." 

"You aren't expecting us to share a bedroom, are you?" she asked, with an expression of distaste on her face.

He gave her a disgusted look. "Well, that would make any actual sexual encounters I might want to have especially awkward. 'Come on in, don't mind my wife over there.'"

She snickered and joined him on the couch and both relaxed. "So we'll have the normal pureblood marriage then," she said. 

"Separate bedrooms, separate sexual partners. Sounds pretty conventional to me," he said and both grinned.

"You know," she said, "I never thought I'd have such a traditional life. Marrying one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Not sleeping with him. Raising a child with the explicit goal of turning her into a political and social force to fear."

"Fate does make fools of us all," Theo agreed.

"Big wedding," she said with a sigh. "It'll have to be, you know."

"Hermione'll be your maid of honor," Theo said, political wheels already turning. "Draco'll be the best man. Photographers. Hermione’s got that guy she uses all the time; we should toss the assignment his way. Æthel as a junior bridesmaid. Alicia as a flower girl in your sister's arms." Her paused. "Is she old enough to be trusted not to eat the flowers?"

"Probably not." Daphne shrugged. "We'll use non-toxic flowers because that image is too sweet to not plaster all over the society pages."

"Violets?" He asked.

"Well, not pansies," Daphne said with an arch look and he groaned.

"You really are an evil bitch," he said.

"Is that any way to speak to your future wife, the step-mother of your innocent daughter?" she asked.

"Speaking of which," he muttered, "that oh-so-innocent daughter managed to manipulate me into agreeing that as soon as she's of age she can start turning all those orphans into her vassals."

"Did you seriously get played by an eleven year old?" Daphne asked, laughing.

"You aren't concerned about her plan?" Theo demanded. "Twenty-two vassals, Daphne. Twenty-two fanatically loyal followers."

"Fanatically?" she asked and he looked at her.

"You think Blaise and I aren't fanatics?" 

"No," she said, "I know you are."

"But there are only three of us," Theo said. "She'll have _twenty-two_."

"Good," said Daphne. "Three knights does not a round table make."

"She's...." Theo trailed off and looked at her.

"Had you really not figured it out," Daphne asked and when he shook his head she sighed. Men were so slow. "She's the orphan princess, the one Nimue anoints. She's the Queen, Theo. If Hermione is Nimue, she's Arthur. Nimue doesn’t _rule_. She hands the sword to the chosen one. Your daughter starts the new dynasty."

"She's just a little girl," he whispered. "She has a cat and likes some horrible wizard boy band and sneaks cake when she thinks I'm not looking. She’s learning to levitate a feather at school…"

"Well," his future wife said, "lets make sure she's ready to wear the crown, shall we? Because I think we have between six and twelve years to turn her into a ruler."

. . . . . . . . . .

Percy was looking through the paperwork on Kingsley’s desk when the man walked in.

“Looking for something, Percy?” he asked and the younger man barely glanced up so the Minister repeated himself, adding, “You can’t just come in here and go rifling through my things, Percy. Not even as my assistant. What’s gotten into you lately? You’re more…”

“Aggressive?” Percy asked, still not looking up. “Less properly afraid of you?” He did glance up at that and looked at the former Auror, the disgraced politician, and for the first time didn’t see a man both physically and professionally imposing but instead a man running to fat who didn’t exercise enough, who’d cut one too many corners.

He pictured Theodore Nott, leaning up against a wall and laughing at a party within minutes of seeing a childhood friend killed because she’d tried to defect and he thought, ‘You have no idea what frightening is, Kingsley.’ 

He felt Theo’s fingers on his chin in his memory and flushed and shuddered at the same time.

Now he just returned to pawing through his boss’ things and just as the man started to bear down on him he held up the book he’d found in one drawer. _Magical Abortifacients: Potions and Spellwork for the Advanced Healing Practitioner. _“Doing a little light reading?” he asked.

Kingsley stepped backwards and said, hands held up before him. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Well, it’s not exactly legal proof, no,” Percy said, clutching the book. “But if I were to show this to the right person it would be a death sentence anyway.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I suppose,” Percy shrugged, tension making the movement stiff. Then he reconsidered as he walked towards the door, book still in his hand. “Though I’d call it more of a warning. You were good to me for years, Kingsley. Now would be a good time to go into hiding.”

The man looked at him and barely considered the notion before shaking his head and settling at his desk. “Don’t be ridiculous, Weasley.”

Less than five minutes later Percy dropped the book in front of Blaise Zabini who read the title and began to do that thing where he seemed wholly calm, steepling his fingers together under his chin, leaning back and looking at the man in front of him. “Considering a career change to medicine, Percy? Where did you find this scintillating book?”

“In Kingsley Shacklebolt’s bottom desk drawer,” Percy answered, his voice level and quiet. “Under quite a bit of debris.”

Zabini looked the book, a slight tick in his jaw the only sign of his fury. “Thank you.” 

“It’ll – “

“It’ll be taken care of.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo and Blaise smiled pleasantly at the Hogwarts Headmistress or, at least, many people would have found the smiles pleasant. She did not.

“It’s a delight to see both of you,” she said wishing, as she often did, that parents would simply trust that she knew what she was doing. “I assume, however, that you aren’t here for a social call?”

“I am,” Blaise leaned back in his seat and looked around her office. There were portraits on te walls along with mementos and piles of paperwork on the shelves and desk. He didn’t see what he was looking for. “Theo needed to talk to you about Æthel and I asked to tag along just to see the old stomping grounds and say hello. You’ll get no grief from me.” 

She didn’t remark on the obvious implication that Theo had some grief to offer. All she said was, “Well, what can I do for you Mr. Nott? Æthel’s a lovely girl, in trouble no more, and somewhat less, than her housemates. I admit I’m surprised to see you.”

Theo smiled. “I admit I was surprised to discover she’d been the victim of an attempted poisoning last term and you made no effort to contact me.”

The ticking of the clock in the corner seemed very loud but other than a twitch in one eye McGonagall didn’t react to the veiled accusation. “She was never at risk,” she said. “Everything from the Weasley shop is confiscated immediately.”

“Yes, George mentioned that when he told me that, although you didn’t contact me, you did contact _him_. Do you owl him every time someone sends one his products to your students?”

“No,” she said, her voice a bit tight now. “I didn’t realize you and George Weasley were friendly.”

“I’m friendly with a lot of people.” Theo paused and glanced casually about the room, as though admiring the décor. “But I’m also in the public eye because of Hermione and that makes my daughter a target.”

“How is Hermione?” McGonagall sounded more truly concerned than merely polite and that brought a moment of honest pleasure to Theo; the old bat had favored the girl shamelessly when they were in school and he was happy to see she still cared. 

“Better, though still recovering from the attack,” Theo said. “I’d like to talk to you about setting up better communication lines in case something like this happens again.”

“Surely with Ronald – .“ McGonagall cut herself off and Theo raised his eyebrows.

“I didn’t realize you knew who sent the package,” he said, adding a calculated note of shocked fury to his tone though, really, he was only surprised she’d led that slip. “Are you telling me you knew, or at least suspected, Ron Weasley was trying to poison my daughter and you never told me? And then he escalated his vendetta to a far more violent public attack against his former friend? How do you sleep at night?”

“I sleep just fine, thank you,” the woman said. “How do _you_ sleep?”

“I find I’ve been up worrying about Æthel, which is why I’m here today,” Theo said. “Let’s talk about those communication protocols you’re going to put into place to protect her, shall we? Perhaps you can walk me to the mail room so we can look over how you do things and I can make some suggestions?” He turned to Blaise. “I’m sorry, mate. Can you wait here while we do this? I’m sure it won’t take long.”

Blaise shrugged. “I’ll wait. Don’t suppose I can get an elf to bring me some tea?”

“You cannot,” McGonagall said, gritting her teeth. “Shall we go then, Mr. Nott.”

“Lord Nott,” Blaise said and when the woman turned to him he smiled at her. “Technically, as the head of a pureblood house, his title is ‘Lord’ and Æthel’s title is ‘Lady’, though I can see how using honorifics in school would be cumbersome and create unnecessary class divisions. Still, as adults shouldn’t we do one another the courtesy of using proper address, Headmistress?”

“Quite,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “If you would follow me then, _Lord_ Nott.”

The two left the room and Blaise counted to sixty. People had an appalling habit of forgetting things and returning for them and he didn’t want to be caught. Then he froze the portraits with a quick, if illegal and rather obscure, incantation and began methodically searching the room. He found what he was looking for in a side cupboard and, after shrinking it, tucked it away in an inner pocket. That task done, he returned to his seat, slumped in a posture of bored patience and unfroze the portraits. None of them appeared to notice the time they’d missed.

“Blaise,” Theo said as he returned with the Headmistress.

“Mmm?”

“Headmistress McGonogall informs me that we could stay to have lunch with Æthel but I did tell her I thought that would probably disturb the girl’s schedule. Still, I’m open to your telling me to stuff my concerns.”

“No,” Blaise said, “as much as I know you’d love to see her I think you’re right; it would just mess up the school’s routine.”

McGonagall let slip a subtle sigh of relief.

“It was wonderful to see you,” Blaise said, rising and taking her hand. “I swear, you look younger than you did when we were students.”

“Tell Luna I send my love,” the woman said, ignoring the gallantry, as she walked them out of her office and towards the door. 

“I will,” Blaise said.

The pair walked to the gate and then apparated back to Theo’s apartment.

“Did you get it?” Daphne asked.

Blaise pulled the scroll from his pocket and resized it and they watched as the name of another magical birth appeared at the bottom of the list.

“Now to figure out how to copy it,” Daphne said. “And fast, before the bitch notices it’s missing. Something tells me she wouldn’t be wholly on board with the whole ‘kidnap Muggle-borns at birth’ plan.”


	43. Chapter 43

As much fun as Æthel had had over her winter break, she was happy be back at school, happy to put her head together with other girls her age and giggle. She knew she could never really be ‘off’; politics were going to dog her even here. Still, getting toast and spooning eggs onto her toast was significantly less filled with the potential to misstep than that Yule party had been. And that conversation with her father over the desserts? Thinking about that still made her shudder. She shouldn’t have let him see her dub Dillan because now he was all upset. Grown ups could be such pains. The other orphans already _were_ her vassals, from the oldest down to ones barely out of toddlerhood. Going through a ceremony was just like putting a ribbon on a package that had already been wrapped up. Still, if it made him happy she’d wait.

The arrival of the mail made her squeal, even if some of the squeals were perhaps a bit loud and perhaps a bit faked. She opened the box the owl dropped right at the able, tossing the paper to the side and showing off the chocolates inside.

“Wow,” one of the girls said, envy in her tone as she looked at the posh paper and ribbons. “Having Draco Malfoy send you presents is pretty nice, I guess.”

“Aunt ‘Mione and Uncle Draco are pretty great,” she said with a grin, thinking of the way that uncle had rewrapped the trick chocolates with her. As soon as she’d said her little bully had called Hermione ‘the m word’ he’d been all business, fetching her some of the infamous Weasley chocolates as well as a box from an elite chocolatier. They’d eaten the gourmet chocolates together. “It’s really the most efficient way to get the packaging we need to deceive your little problem,” he’d said with a mischievous grin. “And I’ll enjoy sending you back to your father all sugared up.”

Now she said, “I’m going to run up to my room and leave them so I don’t have to carry them around to class all day. We can all share them after dinner.”

She managed not to look smug at the mean look in her little problem’s eyes or the slight smirk that danced around the girl’s mouth.

She managed to cry convincingly when she found the chocolates gone. “But who would _do_ that?” she wailed. “Who would just take stuff like that?” Her roommates looked sad as well, though one of them couldn’t _quite_ keep a straight face. 

“It’s so awful, Æthel,” she said. “People can be so mean.”

Æthel even managed not to look smug when she found her bully, curled on her side on the floor of their shared bathroom. “Gosh,” she said. “I hope you didn’t eat something that disagreed with you.”

The girl looked at her. “You,” she breathed. “You did this.”

Æthel squatted down next to her. “Me?” she said, voice totally innocent. “How could I have made you sick? Word of advice, though: I’d stop taking things from our housemates, if I were you. Sooner or later someone might deliberately poison chocolates or something.” She smiled at the girl who glared up at her. “And, trust me, it could be a lot worse than an upset stomach.” She stood up. “It’s terrible you feel so lousy. Do you want me to help you to the infirmary? Let Madam Pomfrey do some diagnostics?”

“No,” the girl said, grudging respect in her tone. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine, right?”

“I’m sure we will,” Æthel said.

. . . . . . . . . .

Luna stretched out on the bed, too tired to even push the sweaty hair out of her face. “You outdo yourself,” she said and Blaise, collapsed next to her, laughed.

“You inspire me to new heights.”

They lay for a few minutes and Luna said, out of the blue, “The answer is drugging them.”

“What? I need context, love.” Blaise found the energy to prop himself up on one elbow and look at his wife.

“While you were coming I figured out the answer to the Auror problem. We drug them and use a spell that relies on the drug in their system to act as a trigger. One big boom and we kill all the drugged Aurors at once. I mean, assuming they go after Hermione at the swearing in. If they don’t, of course, they live.”

“You thought of that while I was…”

“You’re inspirational, what can I say.” Luna smiled at him and he growled at her. 

“Not inspirational enough if you’re thinking of spell work when I’m inside you. I think I might be offended.”

“Do you have the energy to try again?” She looked mischievous. “Another go round and I might solve the…”

“You won’t be solving anything, you witch,” he muttered. “You’ll be screaming my name and thinking of _nothing _else.”

“Does this mean you…”

Blaise leaned over and ran his tongue along her hip, tasting the salt of her sweat, and murmured, “No talking, you wench. I need to concentrate on driving you out of your mind.”

Luna was agreeable to that plan, though it was actually several minutes before she set aside the problem of how to drug the Aurors and focused on what the man was doing to her. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Percy had crossed the main room and his hand was on Theo’s door when Daphne came home. She looked at him and he felt his face begin to burn as she smirked but all she said was, “Nice to see you, Percy,” before going into the kitchen and starting to boil water for tea. He gulped and let himself into Theodore’s room where the man was waiting for him.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise handed the completed paper work to Hannah. “He’s all yours, love.”

Neville smiled at her and scooped Dillan onto his shoulders. “Should we go pick up your brother, kiddo?”

“They’re all my family,” Dillan said and Neville nodded seriously.

“They are. You’re a lucky child: twenty-two brothers and sisters. Your mum and I were both only children.” 

Hannah smiled at her husband and son. “You’ll have to teach him how to weed,” she said as they walked out. “And the words to all our songs, and where the books go and how to crack an egg.”

“He’s too little to be trusted with eggs,” Dillan was saying as the door shut behind them. Blaise leaned back and looked for a bit at the door, thinking about the family circle Neville was growing up there in his little village. It was an area of… what? Not power, he thought, not political power at least. Still, he made a mental note to talk to Luna about the ways threads wove in and out, the way currents rose and sank. Luna was better at understanding the odd way magic flowed and flowered than he was.

. . . . . . . . . .

The basket of chocolates and biscuits that arrived in the Auror’s break room two days before Hermione’s inauguration was greeted with cheers by the whole Auror team. They were tired, tired of being seen as the enemy, tired of a public that seemed to have turned on them. All week they’d been getting treats; this, this was like old times when goodies had shown up all the time thanking them for jobs we done. They liked it.

. . . . . . . . .

“You should congratulate me, Harry,” Hermione said. She’d pulled a chair up at his little table and was helping herself to one of the chocolates that had arrived that day. “These are good,” she said. “I wonder if the poison ruined the taste. I hope not.”

“What?” he’d decided he wasn’t going to let Hermione, or Draco Malfoy, get a rise out of him. The only power he had left was not giving them that satisfaction.

“These are the leftovers,” she said, pointing at the candies. “Luna figured out how to kill all the Aurors at once if we need to. It’s a clever little spell she found at Malfoy Manor but you have to prepare your victim with poison first. So… we’ve been sending poisoned goodies to the Aurors all week.” At the horrified look he couldn’t quite suppress she laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, Harry. Unless they attack me they’ll be fine. After the Ron issue, though, well, we’ve decided to be a little over-cautious.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t eat them, then,” he said, watching her.

“Silly,” she rolled her eyes. “These are the _leftovers_. They’re fine. Honestly, Harry. I’m not going to poison you.”

He looked around his cell. However comfortable it was, it was still a prison. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me, under the present circumstances, for not being especially confident in your good intentions.”

“Aren’t you even going to ask why you should congratulate me?” she asked.

“Why should I congratulate you, Hermione?” he asked without smiling.

“Well, thank you for asking,” she said. “Today is my inauguration. When you next see me I’ll be Minister of Magic.” She put her finger to her lips and looked at him. “Didn’t you want that job? Pity about that little scandal that knocked you out of the race.”

“If you see Astoria, tell her I remember her prowess fondly,” Harry said, still not reacting.

“Was she better than Ginny?” Hermione asked and at that Harry visibly tensed.

“I can’t quite tell, he said at last, “Whether you’ve actually become evil or just a total bitch.”

“What I’ve become is quite popular,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “And I’ll be more so in a few months. This spring we’re planning to have a number of public events, all paid for by the Ministry, including several fun events with generous prizes. And let’s not forget the charity projects.”

“Bread and circuses,” Harry said, looking bored now.

“I do sometimes forget you have at least a smattering of a Muggle education,” Hermione said, momentarily taken aback. “Do you think it will work?”

“It worked for Caesar,” Harry said and when Hermione smiled, the smug expression of the cat who’d gotten into the cream he added, “Of course, his story ended badly, ides of March and all.”

. . . . . . . . .

Theo pushed the drink away and leaned back to look at Draco, his eyes narrowed in speculation. “Are you sure,” he finally asked. “Because what you wanted from the start was _your son_ on a throne. Your family. Your dynasty. Power for _you_. Power for _yours._”

Draco tossed back a shot and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. “We had a son for the throne, conceived at your request no less, and he was murdered.”

Theo blanched.

Draco sighed and slouched down in his chair. “If she wanted it, I’d… but I don’t think I could handle the fear, Theo. She walks down the street and I’m afraid someone is going to curse her. She eats a chocolate and I worry it’s been poisoned. I want to take her and hide her away and keep her safe. And she’s an adult, and a damn dangerous one at that. A child? My child? Another person that vulnerable? Being prepared for the throne? I… I’d be as mad as Moody, seeing assassins behind every bush, by the time the poor kid hit puberty.”

“So you push that burden onto my kid?” Theo asked. “Onto me?”

Draco shrugged. “I never said I was a _nice_ person. And, besides, you swore fealty you sad, sorry, son-of-a-bitch.”

Theo huffed out a laugh. “That I did.”

“Plus, you know, we did do something really… strange… with all that Nimue stuff.”

“I know,” Theo said. “It wasn’t supposed to be… real, you know? It was just a fairy tale to manipulate the masses. But… throw some focused belief and some blood sacrifice into the same mixture and…”

“Sometimes I can’t tell how much of how she’s shaping this future comes from Hermione and how much of it comes from… Nimue. The Weasley thing, that’s all Hermione. She’ll kill every last member of that family before she’s done if we don’t stop her. The political plans? Hermione. But the thing with Æthel? That’s pure Nimue; she’s scripted to anoint, not to rule herself.”

“Speaking of the Weasley thing, I’d rather like to keep Percy,” Theo said, somewhat dryly. “If I have to marry Daphne I feel like I should get a chew toy I don’t have to replace as compensation.”

“I thought you liked Daphne,” Draco said.

“I do. But you like Blaise and I don’t see you hankering to marry him.”

“Fair point,” Draco admitted. “But do you think he’ll want to stick around after we kill off the rest of them?”

Theo sighed. “Probably not. And I _do_ like him, Draco. He’s… scheming enough to not run away from me in horror but he’s not nearly ambitious enough to be competition. And he’s more flexible than you might think. Morally too.”

Draco frowned and rubbed his forehead. “We’ve already picked up Bill. He’s going to be the wizard test case for the changing spell work. We’ve got a Muggle too, but we really do need to test whether the transfiguration works for magical folk as well. Do you think Percy would settle for having his brother dumped, obliviated, someplace?”

Theo shrugged. “I can ask him.”

They sat in silence for a while

“So… you’re really okay with this?” Theo finally asked again. “With Æthel and not… your son?”

“I think I would be happiest if any son I had never wanted to enter the halls of power,” Draco said quietly. “Let me do violence and reshape our world so he can play Quidditch and marry for love.”

“You’ve changed,” Theo said.

“Losing a child changes you.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The Knights of the Lady lined the street where Hermione walked on the day of her inauguration. The Aurors, nominally providing security, found themselves repeatedly shoved into walls by the people pressing against the barricades, cheering as Lady Granger-Malfoy, her husband at her side, walked easily down the street. 

It was clear sympathy didn’t lie with them.

That Draco was terrified - absolutely and utterly – that some other malcontent would be inspired by Ron Weasley’s actions to try a curse or two was not at all visible. He waved to people, smiled engagingly, even scooped a small girl onto his shoulders and gave her a ride for a few feet before handing her back to her beaming mother. 

“We want a queen!” one voice cried out and Blaise, tucked back into an alley, smiled as the cry was taken up. “Queen! Queen! Queen!”

Hermione held up her hand and laughed. “Let’s get me sworn in, shall we? You elected a Minister of Magic, not a Queen.”

Cheers and laughter rippled through the crowd and, as she walked along the street in a parade Muggles assumed was commemorating some minor sporting victory for a local recreational cricket league thanks to generously applied charms and notice-me-not spell work, people began throwing flowers at her feet. Water lilies, mostly, but also white roses, snowdrops, even the occasional narcissus. 

“Nimue,” someone cried. “She’s Nimue come again to lead us back to a time when magic was glorious and wild!”

“The Lady!” a voice answered, and that cheer was taken up and people were stomping their feet and chanting “La-dy, La-dy!”

Remembering the chanting the day she’d won the election Draco tensed but no curse came, no one stepped forward to accuse her of anything. They simply made their way into the Ministry. Once they were in the Atrium they made their way to the main chamber of the Wizengamot.

The swearing in was simple, almost anti-climatic after the cheering throngs in the street. A few words and it was done and she was the leader of Wizarding Britain.

Draco kissed her lightly on the cheek and offered her his arm to lead her back out of the chamber and to her new office where Kingsley Shacklebolt stood to symbolically hand her the keys and undo his warding.

Hermione didn’t acknowledge she could have walked into his office any time she wanted but let him undo the complicated series of magical locks he had around the room with a gracious smile.

Draco didn’t acknowledge what he knew about Shacklebot but shook the man’s hand with a wholly bland countenance.

They’d decided to forgo a formal ball and instead Hermione had arranged an open tab at all the pubs in the area. “I was elected by the people,” she’d said. “Let the people celebrate.”

Celebrate they did. People raised glasses to her all afternoon and well into the night. “Minister Granger-Malfoy,” they cheered, “The People’s Lady!”

“The people’s _queen_,” was whispered in certain corners, passed from one person to another all night.

. . . . . . . . .

When Bill Weasley woke up he was in what looked like a dungeon cell. Someone had made a small effort to make it reasonably comfortable, he supposed. There was a cot and blankets and a table with a plate on it, some chocolates. It was still, unmistakably, a dungeon. There were even bars.

“You’re awake.”

He looked over at the woman leaning against the wall in the hall outside the barred entry. “Do I know you?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Probably not. You’re a bit of an experiment, I’m afraid, and you’re here for the duration of the study. Eventually we’ll decide whether to obliviate you and send you out in the Muggle world or just kill you. My vote is to kill - it’s tidier - but my fiancé thinks that might mess up his sex life.”

He reached for his wand but it was gone. She rolled her eyes at him. “Really? You thought we’d leave you with a wand? Just make yourself comfortable. I’ll see you get a copy of your obituary.”

“Of my what?” He lunged towards her but she was already walking away. He could hear her laughing as she walked away down the hall


	44. Chapter 44

Greg wasn’t even sure what he was doing when he showed up at Hannah Abbott’s front door. She opened the door and stood there, staring at him, white-faced, as he shoved his wand, handle first, towards her.

“Tell me how to atone,” he said, standing on her doorstep. “Tell me.”

She took the wand and put it onto a shelf right inside the door but made no move to let him in and he stood there in the cool air, helpless without his wand, on her front stoop. Neville came over and, muttering “I’ll handle this,” grabbed a coat and walked out the door, gesturing for Greg to follow him.

He did, trailing the man as he put his ratty coat over a cardigan. They walked for a way, neither speaking, tromping over untrimmed grasses and through a small stream, until they came to a circle of old oak trees. Neville entered the circle and leaned up against one of the trees, gestured to another and Greg sat too.

“These are old,” Greg said, his voice almost lost in the space.

Neville nodded. “As old as Merlin, at least.” He sighed and leaned his head back against the tree as if he were pulling strength from it before he began to speak.

“People talk about the war a lot. What we did. What you did.” He looked over at Greg at that and the other man shuddered. What he’d done had been unforgivable. What he’d done to the wife of the man sitting here with him had been, quite literally, unforgivable.

Neville had pulled a long piece of grass out of the ground and was bending it into a circle, wrapping it around and around itself as he kept talking.

“When people tell stories about war they like to hear about heroics. What Harry did. What I did. Save the weak, sacrifice yourself, chop the snake’s head off with the great honking magic sword. Makes for better poetry, you know. People tend to leave out that I thought I was going to shit myself when I went after that fucking snake.”

Greg smiled a little at that. He remembered that feeling; that I’m going to be sick all over myself I’m so scared feeling. He’d felt that a lot.

His smile faded as he thought about how many people he’d made feel that way.

“And no one,” Neville was going on, “and I mean no one, wants to hear that most people don’t even get to have the snake moment. For most people that war was just… Hannah used to crawl back to her common room after detention, did you know that? Sometimes she could walk. Sometimes she couldn’t and somehow she got there anyway because it was that or die. She’d have soiled herself, you know, she’d have vomit on her clothes, in her hair. Her housemates picked her up, washed her off. Healed her. We all became pretty good field medics that year patching up what you and your lot did. Not good enough, of course.”

“I…” Greg swallowed hard and tried to keep from losing the contents of his stomach.

“Funny thing is,” Neville was still talking, “I don’t even blame you. I’m not sure if Hannah does, even. Not really. We were all just kids; none of us knew shite. She was scared, you were scared. She’s scared now; you scare her. She looks at you and she’s right back there, lying on that floor.” He sighed and Greg could hear years of nightmares in that simple sound. “Were you okay after the war?”

“No,” Greg said, “No.” He thought of the way he’d woken screaming for years, of the way he still preferred to have a light on, always. “I don’t think it’s ever going to be okay.”

“Me neither,” Neville said and they sat there in silence for a long time. Finally Neville stood up. “I come here, sometimes, just to sit. Just to breathe. These trees are old, old magic. Not the ‘washing dishes without getting your hands wet’ kind of magic. These are…” he hesitated.

Greg whispered, “the Nimue kind of magic.”

Neville looked down at him. “Yeah.” He sighed. “Sit for a bit. I’ll see if Hannah wants to come out and talk to you. Even if she doesn’t these might… they might help you.” He paused. “You can’t ever really atone, you know. There are things that can never be undone, never be made better. You just… move forward.”

After Neville left Greg closed his eyes and tried to just sit, tried to just be. He could feel the trees pressing in on him, a silent and ruthless circle and he began to weep, choking on his shame, his guilt, his unending, unbearable remorse.

Try for a little remorse, Potter had said. It was part of the man’s legend. He’d actually tried to save his enemy.

Hannah found him that way when she made her way to the oak circle. He could tell when she stepped into the confines of those old trees without lifting his head and he shuddered. He almost wished she’d just kill him. Blood for blood soaking into this ground.

“I don’t hate you,” she said without any preamble and, though he would have thought he’d shed every tear he had in his body he began to cry again.

“I did,” she admitted, watching him with her hands clasped in front of her, twisting in and out of one another. “For years I hated you. I hated all of you. Every time I lost another baby I stoked the fires of my own hatred until they threatened to burn me from the inside out.”

“How did you stop?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“I don’t know,” she said and she still sounded surprised at that. “One day I just didn’t anymore. I thought about you and instead of hating you I felt sad. Sad for me, sad for you. I thought maybe it was easier to be hurt that to wake up one day and realize you’d hurt people. Maybe innocence was easier than – “

“Yeah,” he said and she sat next to him where he huddled on the ground and began, her hand trembling, to stroke his hair. He wished she’d just crucio him; that, he thought, would be easier than this lack of hatred, this…

“I forgive you.”

“You can’t,” he whispered. 

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” she said, her voice stronger. “I lived through your torture and I lived through more miscarriages than you want to know about because of that and I lived through hating you and if I lived through all of that I can damn well forgive you if I want to.”

“It was _unforgivable,”_ he said again and she shrugged, her hand still moving over his hair as he lay facedown in the dirt at her side. 

“You still scare me,” she said. “You scare me a lot. When I see you my throat starts to close up and my heart starts to race and … and I’m no fool. I know you people think I’m just Neville’s dumb Hufflepuff wife but I know that Draco, he… he still does what you did to me, doesn’t he? I think he does it a lot.”

“Yeah,” he said, “He does.” Then, “I don’t. Not anymore. I haven’t since… not since school. Not since the war was over.”

“Why not?” she asked after a long period of silence.

“I.. I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t think I could. You have to mean it, you know.” He laughed for a moment, a hoarse laugh filled with self-loathing. “I’m just Draco’s dumb side-kick.”

“Our special bond.” She stood, brushing dirt off her trousers, and then reached a hand down to him and, shaking, he took it. “We’re the ones they underestimate. Come on. Let’s walk back. Fog’s come up; you’ll get turned around if you try to find the way by yourself. Once we get back to the house we’ll find a date you and Astoria can come over for dinner, bring that baby.”

“She’s teething,” he said automatically. “It’s pretty ugly right now.”

“Then Astoria’ll probably be happy to pass her off to someone else to hold.”

“How can you be like this?” he asked her and she stopped, right before she moved out of the circle and said, “Because the other choice was to burn away. Because I don’t want to be scared all the time. I don’t want that time to chain me up forever.”

“I don’t think I could be so…”

“Forgiving?” she said. “Weak?”

“I was going to say strong,” Greg Goyle said. “Brave.”

Hannah shrugged. “You might be surprise what you’re capable of.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione sat down with Draco and asked, “Who’s the head of the Hogwarts Board of Governors right now?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“Put one of our people in that position,” she said with a frown. “Blaise, maybe. Or… no, not Luna. Astoria would work. Percy, maybe.”

“I will,” he said. “Planning on a little curriculum change?”

“Indeed.”

. . . . . . . . . .

_Wizengamot Restructured_

_Newly installed Minister of Magic, Hermione Granger-Malfoy, has unilaterally dismissed the Wizengamot._

_In a prepared statement released by her office she said, “In recent years the Wizengamot has shifted away from its traditional role as guardian of wizarding culture to a political body, subject to the whims of the ever-changing winds of popular opinion. To protect this august body from being held hostage by such we have decided to return its powers to the hands of our most esteemed and oldest families and have invited each to send a representative. As Minister I look forward to working with these venerable citizens to chart our path towards a future that embraces the best of our past.”_

_Her office dismissed accusations she’d created a puppet legislature and eliminated all the reforms of the recent years as “spurious.”_

_The Daily Prophet has secured the names of some of the new Wizengamot members. War hero Neville Longbottom and half-blood Hannah Abbot will join their elders Andromeda Black and the endlessly delightful Eustacia Parkinson in the new parliament._

_When asked for a comment Longbottom said, “I hope that my voice will always be a vote for tolerance and hope.”_

_One member of the previous Wizengamot, whose seat had been added by previous Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, said only, “I wish Minister Granger-Malfoy luck.”_

. . . . . . . . . . .

As soon as the new Wizengamot too their seats they moved to return all illegally seized lands and vaults to their original owners. A lengthy debate on whether interest should be paid as well finally resulted in a vote that it should not.

“That was a good choice,” Hermione said, her head on Draco’s shoulder. “It makes us look reasonable. Adding interest would have made us seem grasping.”

“Who wants interest when you can have a throne,” Draco teased and she laughed. 

“We’ve convinced a people that giving to the rich is right and proper. Now to drive home to all the wealthy purebloods that they have to distribute alms within their lands, take care of the poor.”

“My mother is on it,” he said, kissing her neck. “There’s not a poor school child who lives on pureblood land who won’t have help buying supplies, not a war widow who won’t have baskets of food delivered.”

“Such a small investment for such large returns,” Hermione smirked. “We’ll take your democracy and any rights you might have to government aid and in return give you very public charity that looks fabulous but which is dependent on the largesse of the elite.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “The utter corruption of the government aid programs certainly helps us.”

“True enough. Do we have another article set to go on how the Order siphoned all those government aid dollars off to themselves?”

“We do. And we’ll be running it alongside articles on how the Notts and the Selwyns and the Malfoys – really all the remaining Sacred Twenty-Eight except the Weasleys and Shacklebolts – have started up charitable foundations for the residents of their newly restored lands.”

“Do you think that might be a little, well, heavy handed?”

He snorted. “I think that you overestimate other people’s ability to perceive subtlety.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

Kingsley was at home when they appeared. He had dismissed Percy Weasley’s advice to hide as the over-anxious hand-wringings of a poofter.

Even knowing the Aurors had been killed he didn’t believe anyone would go after him. He wasn’t some anonymous worker. He was too high profile to target.

Blaise Zabini was the first in the door and before Shacklebolt could even ask why he was there he found himself bound to a chair, found himself silenced.

Theodore Nott came in behind the first man. He stood over the former Minister, apple in one hand, and just looked down at him for a long span of minutes. Then he swung his hand and, having never said a word, backhanded the man as hard as he could. Shacklebolt could feel his nose break, suspected his cheekbone had been shattered as well. The chair would have careened to the floor if Draco Malfoy, the last in, hadn’t used magic to stabilize it. 

“Muggle violence?” Blaise asked. “Tacky.”

“We’ll cut him into small pieces,” Theo said. “He’ll wish we’d used unforgivables by the time we’re done.”

Draco Malfoy pulled a chair up in front of their victim and, settling into it as though they were having a civilized meeting, pulled a book out. _Magical Abortifacients: Potions and Spellwork for the Advanced Healing Practitioner._

That was the moment Shacklebolt knew he was a dead man. Until they he’d believed they’d threaten him, even hurt him, but that no one would be stupid enough to murder the former Minister of Magic. 

“There are so many reasons a woman might want to end a pregnancy,” Draco said, flipping through the book. “So many ways to do it. Apparently the techniques one should use vary quite a bit depending on how far along the woman is in her pregnancy. Things that are totally safe at seven weeks are quite dangerous months later.” He looked up. “Did you know that?”

Shacklebolt didn’t respond.

“Most Healers can handle a simple termination at seven or eight weeks. But by the time the fetus – baby really – is viable any procedure is much trickier and requires a specialist’s care.”

He held the book back and Blaise plucked it from his fingers.

“It’s always been fascinating to me that we only ban three spells.”

“More than three,” Blaise muttered.

“True. I should say that we label only three spells as ‘unforgivable.’” He leaned back. “We wanted that baby. Wanted him desperately. And you, it would seem, helped Ron Weasley murder him. Did a little research for him, slipped him some ideas. I suspect you hoped the spell would kill your political rival as well; it’s rather astonishing that it didn’t. She nearly bled out on that stage, probably would have if she hadn’t caught the attention of an entity we might well have willed into existence over the course of all those months of campaigning.”

“Magic is funny,” Theo said, taking a bite of his apple. “You think you’re just spinning stories but get the focused belief of thousands of wizards all pointing in one direction and you might actually be making things a little more… real.”

“So… it would be unforgivable of me to _avada_ you,” Draco continued. “But, technically, launching a dangerous spell at a pregnant woman, a spell that should only be used by a trained Healer in the confines of a hospital, that’s _not_ unforgivable.

“Except it is.” 

All three men looked at the man bound to the chair in front of them. The only sound in the room was the sound of Theo chewing until Draco said, “Did you give Ronald Weasley that spell?”

Shacklebolt spit at him.

“People tend to forget I’m a legilimens,” Draco said, looking into Shacklebolt’s eyes. “It’s funny, really, since I’m the one who taught Hermione how to do it. Funny, in general, how people assume I’m nothing but her tame lapdog. Hold him.”

Blaise had Shacklebolt’s head in a vise-like grip before Draco had finished speaking. “Gave him the book,” Draco said as Shacklebolt tensed under the mental intrusion and Blaise’s grip grew tighter. “Suggested he steal Potter’s invisibility cloak.”

“Interesting,” Theo said, tossing his apple core to the white-carpeted floor. “Maybe Potter’s less culpable than we thought.”

“Less capable, for sure,” Blaise said, releasing Shacklebolt. “We broke him a long time ago.”

Draco looked around at the white carpet, the pale furniture, the pale curtains. It was very much the home of a man who didn’t have children. “You have a lovely flat, Minister. I plan to wash it in blood.

“Don’t worry, though. We won’t use any ‘unforgivable’ curses so I’m sure everything will be just fine.”

Theo snorted and pulled his wand out of his pocket.

. . . . . . . . . . .

_Ban of “Dark” Magic Repealed_

_The Minister of Magic has repealed all on restrictions on magic usage with the notable exceptions of the three curses traditionally called “unforgivable.”_

_“We trust the citizens of wizarding Britain to use good judgment,” Lady Granger-Malfoy said in a press conference. “While children need restrictions on the use of their magic adults, obviously, are not children and shouldn’t be treated as such by their government. Muggle-baiting, of course, remains off limits but magic is a deep and wondrous spring. Let’s stop just skimming the surface and explore the limitless traditions of our heritage.”_

_The steady accumulation of limits on magical practices can be traced back to…_

The man put the paper down and looked at his wife. 

“Well,” she said. “What do you think?”

She frowned as she buttered her toast. “The way the Ministry makes rules the way they do has never set quite right with me. No wands until they say. No spells but the ones they say. You don’t _have to_ send your kid to Hogwarts but if you don’t they’ll never be able to get a decent job and the Hogwarts curriculum is – “

“Lacking,” the man agreed. “And it’s not like normal people can afford to send their kids off to Durmstrang or that Frenchie school.”

“Why shouldn’t I be able to do blood magic if I want,” his wife said. “It’s not like I’d be doing human sacrifice but if a little cut on my thumb’ll keep the garden healthy I don’t see why some bureaucrat gets to tell me that’s not okay. Why can’t I teach our daughter some of the old magics without having to do it in secret?”

The man nodded. His gran had been a remarkable hedge witch, self-taught but powerful. When she’d had a bit much of her dandelion home brew she’d had similar things to say. “It wasn’t always like this,” she’d said. “Facist bastards. We used to do what we wanted to without the damn Ministry showing up with their little fines and their little hearings and their little Improper Use of Magic Committee.”

Then she’d spit in the dirt, a classic expression of contempt for the intrusive government.

“Thank Merlin we’ve got that new one in there now,” his wife said. “That Lady Malfoy. She knows what the old ways are.”

“The old ways aren’t an election,” the man said with a snort. “The old ways were the magic picked.”

“Maybe the magic has,” the woman said, turning a page of the paper and looking for the coupons.

“Maybe the magic could use a little help,” the man muttered.


	45. Chapter 45

When Daphne had agreed to marry Theodore Nott her father had been smugly pleased. Yes, she’d been oddly amused by his suggestion when he’d first made it but now she’d come around. He did, after all, know what was best for her.  
  


The problem had been the tremendous dowry the man had wanted.

She’d begged him, tears running down her face, to not spoil her chance. “I never thought he’d want me,” she’d wept. “Please, Daddy.”

He’d blanched at the sum he’d have to transfer but all he’d said was, “Anything for my little girl.” After the way the new Minister and her new Ministry had returned his vaults and land and manor he had the money, after all. 

He’d have felt a lot less pleased with himself for manipulating his daughter into marrying the man of his choice, even if it was going to cost him, if he’d seen her later that day, tossing back a whiskey on her fiancé’s couch and laughing with the man.

“Did you actually cry?” Theo had asked, snickering as she mimicked herself.

“’Please Daddy, pay the man this obscene amount of money to take me off your hands.’” She’d poured herself another glass. “Hey, if he’s going to be so ridiculously antiquated as to think he can pick my husband he can also pay for the privilege. We can use the money to - ”

“We can use the money to buy a small country,” Theo had snorted. 

. . . . . . . . . .

It was as close to a royal wedding as they could arrange. “This,” Daphne had said at one point in the planning, “is actually obscene.”

“It’s an affair of state,” Theo had said, looking over her shoulder at the project plan binder Daphne had in front of her, color coded tabs separating guest lists from scheduled wardrobe fittings from the budget, or lack thereof. “Of course it’s obscene.”

“I’m not sure I can stomach the big, princess, pouffy thing,” she’d said, looking at wedding dress sketches. “I know it’s traditional and all, but...”

“That one.” He’d put his finger down on a sketch of a simple dress with elegant lines. 

“Already autocratic and we aren’t even married,” she’d teased but she’d followed his advice. “At least you aren’t hung up on shoes the way Draco is,” she’d muttered after sending her selection off to the dressmaker and he’d laughed. 

“What can I say? I like ‘em barefoot and pregnant,” he’d said and she’d hurled one shoe at his head. 

“Settle for half?” she’d asked.

. . . . . . . . . .

She’d sat for a portrait with the photographer long before the actual wedding. Theo had pulled Æthel from school and the two had posed near a window at Nott Manor (“Where we will never live because ghosts and drafts,” Theo had said). 

“You two look beautiful together,” the photographer had said, fussing with her veil and the tiny circlet they’d gotten for Æthel’s hair. “And you look just like a princess, little one.”

Æthel had grinned up at him and Daphne had tensed lest the girl come out with some impolitic response but all she’d said was, “Thank you.”

The portrait eventually ran in the society pages with the supposed candids from the wedding. The photographer who, along with his near fanatical loyalty to Hermione was also genuinely talented, had caught a moment where Daphne was tucking a strand of hair back for her new step-daughter and the girl was looking at her with a heartbreaking look of hesitant hope on her face. _The Orphan Princess_ the paper titled the image, adding _Little Æthel Nott, who has gone from abandoned orphan to beloved daughter and heir to an ancient and noble House, has captured the heart of not just her new step-mother but also all post-War wizarding Britain. We look forward to seeing this young lady grow up before our eyes but don’t envy any young wizard who brings her home late! _

“How can people fall for this,” Molly Weasley demanded when she saw the article, shoving it in her unfortunate husband’s face. “She’s some Death Eater’s spawn, adopted by another one. Don’t tell me this marriage is anything but a political farce!”

“She seems like a nice kid, Mollywobbles,” Arthur said, reaching his hand out toward his fuming wife. “She’s had it rough, growing up with no parents. Why can’t you just be happy for her? Or have you decided you hate that Daphne Greengrass too?”

“Daphne _Nott_,” Molly nearly spit out.

She’d stopped being able to find an audience for her dislike of the Nott boy and his fairy tale life. Her friends had begun to awkwardly change the subject whenever she brought it up and one of them had finally pulled her aside and said, “Look, Molly. I know the war was hard on your family – really hard. But everyone _likes_ Theodore Nott and his little daughter. It’s sweet how much he dotes on her and the girl looked beautiful at his wedding. I think you really need to drop it or people are going to start wondering why you’re so obsessed with hating these people you don’t even really know.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The day of her wedding Daphne smiled at her father as he held out his arm, ready to escort her down the aisle to her groom. “No nerves, now,” he said with what passed for an encouraging smile.

“Oh no,” she smiled back at him. “Theodore and I are very well suited.” She looked up towards the man, waiting patiently at the alter, Draco at his side. Astoria had already walked up the aisle, trying to pry the flowers out of Alicia’s chubby fist as she went. As predicted, that image has elicited coos from all the women in the fairly vast audience.

  
Excuse me, Daphne thought to herself. From all the women among the _guests_.

Æthel, not-quite-crown on her little head, had walked down the aisle with a charmingly serious expression on her face. She’d stopped to grin at her little friend, Neville’s oldest boy, before being shooed forward. Daphne made a mental note to ensure a photo of her dancing with Dillan made the papers.

Hermione, Minister of Magic and her Matron of Honor had glided after the girl. 

Now it was her turn and she smiled. Most pureblood marriages were like this, nothing but convenience and alliances. She’d never expected anything else and at least Theo was a friend. At least he didn’t have _expectations_ or any plans to curtail her extra-marital activities. 

Her mother had given her an extensive lingerie wardrobe. “For your new husband,” the woman had said with a knowing look and Daphne had had to struggle to keep from rolling her eyes. She knew Theo had been discrete his entire life but _surely_ everyone who was anyone knew he was about as likely to be turned on by her in lingerie as she was by a bowl of apples. 

Thank all the gods she’d decided that intelligence wasn’t actually that important in a lover because she didn’t have the time or energy to maintain even the shallowest of relationships outside the inner circle and it turned out all those years of playing Quidditch had given Marcus Flint remarkable stamina and thigh muscles simply not to be believed. He’d expressed his appreciation at length for the white satin corset set this morning before she’d had her hair done. It would be amusing to dance with him at the reception, holding themselves a wholly appropriate distance from one another while picturing his face between her legs.

Theo had laughed when she’d started sleeping with Marcus. “But he’s such a traditional pig, Daph. And… what do you _talk_ about after sex?” he’d asked.

“Not much,” she’d admitted, adding, “But have you _looked_ at him, Theo?”

“I suspect,” he’d drawled, “one shouldn’t admit to ogling one’s wife’s lovers.”

Now she met Theodore Nott’s eye as her father walked him towards him. “We’ll be the second most powerful couple in wizarding Britain,” Theo had said to her the night before.

“I’ll take that over a straight partner any day,” she’d admitted.

Well suited, indeed.

. . . . . . . .

Theo watched Daphne approach him; well, this was certainly something he’d never expected. Wizarding culture was still so conservative. He’d known for years that if he wanted power he’d have to be discrete about his personal life. That he had the chance to grasp at this much power, this much influence: that made him smile. He’d take a wife for that. Even better, his wife would take a husband for that with no illusions whatsoever they were anything more than partners in their quest to take over, well, everything.

He looked over at Hermione, a much loved, unexpected sister. She’d brought him into her circle, taken over their world. The Minister of Magic who’d returned his substantial holdings to him, who’d introduced him to his daughter. How long, he wondered, until she orchestrated demands that she be made Queen. 

Regent.

Not that anyone would know that. They’d put her on a throne, their much loved Lady, and she’d set the world on the path she wanted and then hand it to Æthel.

Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, one of the four Queens of Avalon. “I don’t rule,” she’d said. “I choose the king. After a bit of absolute power, of course.”

King Arthur, tossed a sword that confirmed his kingship.

Arthur. The strong king.

Æthel. The noble queen.

Theo smiled at Daphne as she grinned at him before schooling her face into an expression of appropriate seriousness for their audience and the official joining them into a lifetime of wedded bliss. Words were said, explanations of the seriousness of this day, invocations to assorted gods Theo didn’t really believe in.

Of course, he hadn’t believed that a figure out of myth could show up and take residence in the soul and mind of his sister either. 

Before they got to the vows Daphne knelt down in front of the little girl and held her hands out. Apparently confused, Æthel looked up at Theo who nodded encouragingly at her. The little girl took Daphne's hands and looked at her. "Æthel," Daphne said, "your father is one of my very best friends and he has asked me to marry him. That means I'd live with you and I would be –"

"My mother?" Æthel asked, playing her scripted role to the hilt.

"Yes," Daphne said. "If you would allow it. What do you think, Æthel? Should I accept his proposal? Should we go forward with this ceremony? Will you allow me into your life as your mother? Or should we just skip the vows part and move on to the food and the dancing?"

Æthel flung herself forward into Daphne's arms almost knocking the woman over. "Please, please, please marry him!" the little girl gushed.

"Are you sure?" Daphne teased. "You might not like me as a mother so much once I am telling you that your skirt is too short and that you have to finish your salad."

"Yes, yes, yes, yes!" Æthel insisted. She leaned forward and whispered something into Daphne's ear which made the woman tighten her arms around the little girl; that had not been a part of the rehearsed scene. "I love you too," Daphne said.

There was a multitude of "Awwws" that ricocheted around the room. "That is the sweetest thing I think I have ever seen," one woman sniffled.

"I have something for you," Daphne said to Æthel. Hermione slipped a small jewelry box from her pocket into Daphne's outstretched hand and the bride popped open the box and showed the locket within to Æthel. Æthel squealed with delight and Daphne pulled the locket from the box and, handing the now empty packaging back to Hermione, went to place the locket around her new daughter. When she couldn't get the clasp to unhook Theo stepped forward and helped her fasten the locket around Æthel’s neck.

"I love you, princess," he murmured as he brushed her hair aside and helped put the jewelry on his daughter. Æthel gave her father a quick hug and said, "Marry her, okay, because I want to have the cake."

Everyone laughed.

The cake _was_ excellent. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione watched Hannah talk to Greg and Astoria at the reception, wine glass clutched in her hand. Hannah reached out and Astoria deftly traded the baby – toddler now, she supposed - for the glass and Hannah bobbed the little one, making faces and eliciting loud giggles. 

“You should come visit us sometime,” Neville said as he came up from behind her. 

“You apparently work miracles up there in your little village,” Hermione said but Neville shook his head, eyes on the woman in front of him. She returned his steady gaze and asked, “How’s Dillan and the new one?”

“Gavin?” Neville smiled. “They’re great. Narcissa was right when she suggested these kids need each other. It turns out he has a full brother, Gareth, who we’re going to take in too. We’re going to end up with a big family. I… it’s been a blessing in the truest sense of the word. Some day… some day I hope I can do the same, reflect the light you’ve brought into our lives back to yours.” 

A loud squawk from Alicia, who had demanded to get down and move, interrupted them and Neville laughed as Hannah and Astoria tried to intercept the small terror as she moved from one hazard on the floor to another without outraging the child. Based on her increasingly loud protests, and the way her hands seemed to find every possible choking hazard, outrage was inevitable.

“I think Astoria and Greg are just about ready to head home,” Neville said with a grin and Hermione laughed as Hannah plucked Alicia out of reach of the plant she was eyeing and handed her to her father. Greg took the girl and smiled a quick thanks at Hannah, who swallowed a bit, perhaps, at the sight of him so close to her but who forced a smile onto her own face as well.

Hermione wondered what had brought that transformation about so quickly but the thought fled as she turned to talk to the older Mr. Parkinson about some planned changes in the Hogwarts curriculum.

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Well, dear,” Theo said as he sprawled on their couch later that night, rubbing a place on his foot the dress shoes had chaffed. “Shall we consummate?”

“Ugh, don’t even joke.” Daphne turned her back to him. “Unzip me.”

He slid the zipper down and then pulled out a Quidditch magazine as she shucked off the dress and disappeared into her own room. “Daph,” he called out after a few minutes. “Did you say something to Marcus? He turned bright red every time I looked at him tonight and he kept stuttering when I talked to him. He does know I’m not going to challenge him to a duel over your questionable virtue, doesn’t he?”

“There’s a question about my virtue?” Daphne stuck her head out her door and looked at her husband. 

“Did you say something to Marcus?” he repeated, turning to look at her and she shrugged.

“I might have mentioned you’d inspired something I wanted to try with him. I might have shown him the cocktail napkin with the sketch you made.”

“The position that uses the Muggle yoga stability block? The one you told me you weren’t sure was possible?”

“That’s the one.”

Theo sniggered. “Well, I guess that would explain it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LadiePhoenix007 was kind enough to write a brief, smutty one-shot about Percy and Theo. It’s VERY MA and you can read it at archiveofourown.org/works/3543941


	46. Chapter 46

Minerva McGonagall looked across the table at the very new head of the Board of Governors. “Percy,” she said, “I have a really hard time believing this is something you want. _Dark Arts_? At _Hogwarts_?”

Percy shrugged and his suit settled across his shoulders, cut far too well to be inexpensive. “I don’t see what the problem is, Headmistress – “

“Minerva, please,” she said and he nodded graciously.

“Minerva. It’s not like we’re asking you to add horcruxes to the required reading list.” He leaned forward. “We’re losing students, Minerva. For years parents have wondered whether Hogwarts really offers a cutting edge education. Divination was taught by a woman we all knew was an alcoholic when I was a student here, you still have a ghost teaching history, and the school’s inability to keep a competent Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is legendary. You can’t just operate in a vacuum up here. The school needs to prepare the youth of wizarding Britain to compete in the modern world and that means you need to shake up your staff and your curriculum.”

“But…_ Dark Arts_,” she said again, shaking her head at the sheer horror of that request.

“They teach them at Durmstrang,” Percy said. “And that’s where parents are sending their brightest students. O.W.L. scores have been going down, Minerva. I’ve pulled fifty years of data and the long term trends don’t look good.” He pulled out a folder with neatly tabulated and trimmed sheets of parchment and set them out in front of her.

She didn’t look at them.

Percy eyed her with some annoyance. He’d spent quite a bit of time doing this research. Daphne had even stopped making fun of him and had begun to just ignore the books and folders and scrubby bits of paper he’d spread all over her table. He’d overheard her muttering, “I can’t tell if you’ve been good for him, Theo, or made him even more of an unbearable wonk than he already was.”

“We’ve had two wars in that time,” McGonagall was objecting, pulling him back to focusing on this meeting rather than how peculiar his personal life had become. “You can hardly expect students to – “

“You’re blaming your staffing problems on the wars?” Percy raised his eyebrows and he could see Minerva wondering where the awkward, eager to please boy had gone. Like most people she probably missed the clumsy Head Boy. He sighed, a rather put upon sound, and then said, “The data do show obvious dips during wartime in the scores but, even factoring those out, the long term projection just isn’t good, and there hasn’t been any kind of significant post-war bounce. If you can’t turn that around the Board is going to have to take a far more hands-on approach to managing Hogwarts. We’d like to see a Dark Arts professor added for next year, a search instituted to replace Binns and a total revamping of the Divination curriculum. Oh, and please add a mandatory Wizarding Customs class for all your Muggle-born students; there’s no reason they should struggle to integrate the way they do.”

That, of course, would be a bit of a temporary position, Percy thought. No reason to tell McGonagall that though.

Minerva looked down at the report in front of her, nearly shaking with rage. “This is outrageous.”

“No,” he said calmly. “What’s outrageous is the way this school has shortchanged students for decades. It stops now. And if you can’t stop it under your watch, Minerva, you’ll be replaced. The school year is almost over and you’ll have the entire summer to find new hires and get a curriculum in place.” He stood. “It was good to see you. 

She stood and looked at him, her lips narrowed to a thin line that slashed across her face. “You should leave management of the school to the education professionals, Percy. This isn’t a potions lab; you can’t manage students the way you can a business or a government department.”

“Show me you can get results and I’ll be happy to leave management of the school to you. I’ll be looking for the job listings and would love to meet your final choices. Perhaps we could have a little party in the late summer to welcome the new staff? I leave that up to your impeccable judgment, of course. Good day, Minerva.”

He stopped once he was outside the door of her office and listened to her swearing. Who knew Minerva McGonagall said such things? 

. . . . . . . . . .

“Why don’t you just quit?” Hannah asked between playing peek-a-boo with Alicia. The three little boys were outside playing at being dragons, roaring at one another and pretending to fly, and Neville was pulling out their chipped tea things and pouring for everyone. Astoria had brought a cake, apologizing that she’d bought it rather than making it from scratch.

“I wasn’t taught anything quite as useful as cooking,” she’d admitted but Hannah and Neville had both brushed off her embarrassment.

“There’s no inherent virtue in cake making,” Hannah had said, “and this looks wonderful.”

Greg snorted at the idea of quitting the Lady’s inner circle. “It’s not just that the retirement policy is death,” he said, “it’s that… I really do love her.”

“We all do,” Astoria admitted. Astoria and Hannah had connected almost immediately over children and the first awkward teatime, concocted mostly as a way for Hannah to prove to herself she wasn’t frozen by fear anymore, had turned into regular meetings between the couples. Greg had, as it turned out, a knack for playing with small boys and keeping them occupied and Hannah found herself grateful that he could tire them out in a way she simply couldn’t. 

“She’s magic,” Greg said. “Actual, real magic. When I say, ‘my life is hers’ I’m not being poetic and I’m not talking about what happened to Pansy, it’s that I don’t _want_ to quit her.”

“I just wish…” Astoria said, but she stopped and flushed.

“What,” Hannah asked.

“That she wasn’t so… she’s getting so…”

“Possessed?” Neville asked rather wryly. They’d discussed the issues with Nimue at some length. 

“Lost,” Astoria said. “I’d say lost.”

Hannah looked at Alicia for a moment and said, “Greg, do you love your daughter?”

“Of course I do,” he said, offended.

“Is your life hers?”

“Yes,” he said, looking confused as Hannah cut the cake Astoria had brought and put a slice in front of him.

“Would you let her put hard candy in her mouth? Even if she really, really wanted to? Even if she screamed when you took it away from her?” Hannah finished passing out the cake to the adults and settled down into her seat.

“Of course not,” Greg said, impatiently. “Choking hazard. I’m not total rubbish at this, you know.”

“Something she’s a genius at finding,” Astoria muttered.

“Sometimes taking care of people we love means keeping them from hurting themselves,” Hannah said quietly as Neville kissed the top of her head and Greg blinked a few times.

. . . . . . . . . .

_Bill Weasley, war hero, was found dead in his garden on Tuesday. The body was taken to St. Mungo’s for an autopsy at the request of his mother and no foul play was found. The funeral will be on Saturday; the family requests that in lieu of flowers people send donations to the Lycanthropy Research Fund._

Daphne left the article and the accompanying photo of the grieving widow on the table in Bill’s cell. His howl of rage and despair when he woke and found it could be heard throughout the Manor.

. . . . . . . . . .

Molly sat at the Healer’s desk. They’d spent the morning running tests, trying to figure out why she kept getting all these headaches. 

“It feels like I’ve gone around with a bunch of Death Eaters,” she’d said to the Healer. “I never remember them coming on, I just pass out and when I come to it’s obvious I’ve lost time because things are _different_. Chairs have been moved, dishes are out, and so on but I don’t remember doing _any_ of that. And when I come to my head is pounding and my whole body aches. I usually have to go lie down for the rest of the day.”

Now the Healer was looking at her, her hands steepled in front of her. “How many curses did you take during the War?” she asked. “Specifically, how many _unforgivable_ curses did you take during the War?”

“None,” Molly said, looking at her in confusion.

“Hmm.” The woman leaned back and looked back at the reports in front of her. “Your scans look exactly like someone who’s been subjected to repeat bouts of the Cruciatus Curse. When did these headaches start?”

“After Ronald died,” Molly said. “I thought it was probably stress, to be honest.”

The woman flipped through her paperwork some more. “Did anyone ever alter your memory during either War. I know you worked for the Order and I’m not asking you to reveal any confidential information. Just… is it possible you had work done to alter your memories or hide your memories? Do you use a pensieve on a regular basis, for example, or did anyone obliviate plans from you?”

“Not that I know of,” Molly said, her eyes narrowing. “I know the Order’s been vilified in the press lately but stealing people’s memories wasn’t exactly something we did. I suppose it’s possible it was done in extreme cases but it was hardly ‘routine’ or ‘regular.’”

“Are you sure?” the Healer asked.

“Quite sure,” Molly said bristling.

The Healer sighed and leaned back in her seat. “So…” she dragged the word out. “Your profile looks like someone who’s been repeatedly tortured and had her memory altered to remove all memories of the experience. It’s something we do quite a bit for war survivors; when the memories are just too much to live with, when they can’t move on with therapy, we have a mind Healer take the memories away. It’s a bit of a controversial treatment but it’s done wonders for some people who are really suffering; I’ve seen scan results like these before and… Molly Weasley, who’s torturing you? Do you need information on a women’s shelter? Because no one can hurt you, no matter how many children you’ve had or how much of a hero your husband was during the war that doesn’t make it okay for him to – “

Molly cut the woman off. “Arthur is not abusing me,” she said, offended. “Let me see those!” She reached out for the reports as Blaise Zabini opened the door to the office and slipped inside.

“This is a private conference,” the Healer said. “You’ll have to wait in the – “

“_Obliviate,” _Blaise said, and began gathering up the paperwork.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Molly demanded. 

Blaise turned to her and said, with a smile, “It’s a good thing Luna happened to see you here. I’d have hated to have had to clean up a bigger mess than just one Healer. But, tsk, Molly, so annoying of you. We did so enjoy our times with you, punishing you for helping your dear Ronald, but it looks like playtime is over and it’s time for you to end it all. Try to make the suicide note sound convincingly distraught, would you?”

Molly put her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what you think you’re talking about but – “

_“Imperius._”

. . . . . . . . .

_Molly Weasley was found dead in her home on Thursday. Her surviving family could not be reached for comment but an Auror confirmed, off the record, that official cause of death has been ruled a suicide. “I think it was just too much for her, losing Bill too,” the Auror said. “She’s been struggling since Ginny and Ronald’s death. My heart just breaks for her. I hope people keep her in their thoughts.” The Auror confirmed that a suicide note was found at the scene but declined to reveal what it read._

Hermione looked up from the small blurb in the _Prophet _at Blaise who smirked at her from where he stood. “The suicide note was a nice touch,” she said.

“I thought you’d appreciate that,” he said. 

. . . . . . . . .

Hermione sat down with George and took his hands in hers.

"Are you going to kill me too?" he asked, his voice dull.

She sighed and shook her head. "George," she said, "I don't think you're... I think you need a break. I need you to do something for me, something that will get you out of the city for a while."

He shrugged and didn't speak and Hermione looked over him at Neville, who was leaning against the back wall with a worried frown on his face. 

"George," Hermione tried again, "do you think you could go up to that village Neville lives near and open a small shop up there? We could have someone man your main business, you don't need to close it down, but..."

"Is that an order," George asked, still with no expression in his voice.

Hermione squeezed his hands. "Yes, George. It's an order. Go up to Neville's little village. Open a shop, something small. Neville and Hannah need help with their brood and, you know, if you started to feel better you could adopt some of the orphans. You're good with large families, right?"

George finally reacted, at least a little. "I could do that," he said. 

Neville peeled himself off the wall and offered his hand to George. "C'mon," he said. "I'm no good at jokes and I'm up to three boys. If you don't help out they'll turn out to be humorless duds like me."

"You're good with a sword, though," George said.

"Well, all magic swords and no trick wands make for a dull boy," Neville said and George almost smiled. 

"I can do trick wands," he said. "Where will I live?"

Neville shrugged. "Oh, there's easily half a dozen abandoned old wizarding cottages up and around the grove and the little lake. I'm sure Hermione can go all eminent domain and seize one of them for you. They're nothing fancy. No Wiltshire manor houses," he said with a look at Hermione, "but for someone wanting a simple life, they're perfect."

"That sounds... okay." George said. "That sounds... that sounds good."

"Good is what we do," Neville said, still watching Hermione. 

. . . . . . . . . . .

Hermione's step when she came into their bedroom was hesitant enough to make Draco nervous. She was twisting her hands together and she sat down on their bed and looked at him with an unreadable expression in her eyes. If he had to guess he would have said it was a combination of hope and fear.

He sat down next to her and ran a hand over her hair. "What's going on?" he asked.

"I... I haven't been paying attention," she stammered, "and the Healer said I should expect things to be irregular for a while anyway, so... but..."

"I'm not following you," he said as gently as he could.

"I'm late," she finally said. 

It took him a moment to process what that meant. He almost said, "late for what?" before he realized she was _late_.

"Have you checked?" he asked, trying to limit the excitement in his voice, the raw _hope_ that this meant what he thought it meant.

"I didn't dare," she admitted. 

"Do you want..." he trailed off.

She nodded but she also began to cry. Fat, silent tears rolled down her cheeks and he pulled her into an embrace. "More than anything," she said. 

"Me too," he said. "You and me and a cottage somewhere up north, someplace so isolated no one can find us, and fat babies and -." His voice broke at that. "And fat babies and no politics."

"Really?" she sniffled and then, leaning back and pushing her hair out of her eyes she studied his face. "We did this for power, Draco. Do you really want to give that up? _You_?"

"I'd give up anything to keep you safe," he whispered. Then a sly little smile tweaked his lips up. "Besides, doesn't Nimue anoint, not rule?"

"You wanted her to anoint our son," Hermione said, still watching him.

"Wanted," Draco admitted. "Don't want." He looked away, looked at their reflections in the mirror of her vanity. "I don't know if I could survive another attack on you or a child of mine, Hermione. I... I'm barely holding on to sanity some days now. Sometimes I'm so angry I want to burn the world down, want to kill every person who stood there in that hall and didn't stop Ron. I want them to suffer. I want them to suffer and suffer and suffer and suffer." His voice broke and he buried his face into his hands. "I... I'm not sure I like who I've become. It's become too easy. If someone tried to hurt you again I'd... I think I might turn into Bella. Sometimes I wonder if I already have."

"I know," she said the words softly. "Me too." She put her hands on his cheeks, over his own, and lifted his face gently up 'til he was looking at her again. "Maybe you could start tracking down a cottage for us?"

"I think I could do that," he said. "If you wanted me to."

"Maybe by a lake?" she said and he laughed, a shaky sound in their room.

"Are we really stuck with her forever?"

"I think so," Hermione admitted and he sighed. "Would you check?" she asked.

He pulled his wand out and did a quick _revelio_. The little spark that glowed above her abdomen made his breath catch. Hermione began to cry again, as did he, and he pulled her towards him and began kissing her all over her face.

"This one will be different," he promised. "No one will hurt you. No one will _touch_ you. No one will hurt our son. No one. Not ever. And we'll go to a cottage and teach him to swim in the lake and he'll fly a broom too fast and you'll be all mad at me for buying him that stupid broom and mutter about how there should be better restrictions on that thing and we'll live happily ever after, right?"

"Happily ever after," she repeated.

"Poor Theo," Draco said after a moment. "That bastard's going to be stuck running the country."

"Well," Hermione hiccupped through her tears. "He does have Percy."

"If that's supposed to make his lot better, it's worse than I thought," Draco said and, at that, they both started to laugh.


	47. Chapter 47

“You’ve had a very difficult time,” Hermione said as Arthur Weasley hovered on the edge of his chair, trying not to look around her office. “You’ve lost three children recently, your wife. It’s just George, Percy and Charlie now, isn’t it.”

Arthur nodded.

“Theo and Percy have been working rather closely on restructuring the Hogwarts curriculum,” Hermione continued. She enjoyed the poor man’s total lack of comprehension that Theo’s little thing for Percy had saved Arthur’s own life, had saved Charlie. Hell, it had saved Bill, though he was now obliviated and working as a security guard at a bank in Cardiff.

She’d obliviated Fleur too, and sent the woman on her way to Wales as well. Now the theoretically dead man and his missing wife had reunited and, if reports were accurate, were quite happily living as working class Muggles.

And people accused her of being evil. 

Molly certainly had.

Well, Molly wasn’t around anymore and she’d decided to honor Theo’s quite formal request that she stop arranging for people in his lover’s family to die. The manipulative bastard had phrased it in a way that she couldn’t technically refuse without seeming unreasonable which was somewhat annoying but, after all, that kind of slipperiness was why she planned to leave the country in his capable hands until Æthel was of age.

Charlie she could just ignore. He was up doing his dragon thing, and Neville was getting George settled in a cottage up by him. That left Arthur to deal with, vague, noble, un-clever Arthur that she’d promised she wouldn’t kill, promised she’d find a place for him in the new Ministry.

“You understand, of course,” she said, “that as much as I’d like to find a place for you in this administration because of your continued affiliation with the Order of the Phoenix it’s hard for me to trust you.”

He nodded again, a kind of resigned, quiet despair.

“Still, she continued, “you’re an able _bureaucrat_ and I’d hate to lose your competence and expertise and you and your dear, late wife were quite involved with the Orphanage, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, his face still wooden and she swallowed a smirk. He knew, of course, that she knew _exactly_ how they’d been involved with what had become a pet project of hers.

“Perhaps you could work to help the transition as we place all of those children into loving families? You do have quite a bit of experience with children, of course, so it seems like the perfect fit to me.”

Hermione wondered how much knife twisting she could do before the man in front of her would strike back.

More, apparently, than she’d done so far.

No wonder Molly had simply trampled over the poor man. She felt a tiny bit of pity for him as he said, “That… that would be great. Thank you for trusting me, Minister.”

“Trust you?” She tipped her head to the side and smiled slowly and he swallowed hard. “Let’s say, instead, that I know you. Don’t fail me, Mr. Weasley.”

. . . . . . . . . .

When Luna got home Blaise was cross-legged on the floor with books spread out all around him.

“Scroll duplication?” she asked, tossing her bag down but he shook his head and, her interest piqued, she settled down next to him and picked a tome up.

“_Ley Lines in Britain_,” she read the title of one of the books and cocked on eyebrow up. “More Nimue research?”

“No,” Blaise drummed his fingers on the floor in concentration. “Well, yes, but not exactly. It’s the… lots of magic wasn’t exactly covered at Hogwarts and I didn’t go on to do any kind of internship at the Department of Mysteries or anything.”

“Plodders, mostly,” Luna dismissed all the top-secret government researchers with obvious disdain. “The real work is always done by oddballs in their basements. What are you interested in?”

“Neville,” Blaise said. “What’s going on up in his little village. Hermione’s sending George up there to rest. He and Hannah have adopted three boys now, all some of Æthel’s minions. Greg and Hannah have come to some kind of… I would never, _ever_ have expected her to do anything other than recoil from him but he and Astoria have somehow become _friends_ with her and Neville.”

“You think treachery?” Luna sounded amused. 

“No.” Blaise drew the word out. “Nothing that straightforward.”

. . . . . . . . . .

George peered inside the cottage with a somewhat dubious look on his face. It was cluttered and dusty and one window had long ago broken and an aggressive raspberry cane had reached in and was clinging to the shredded drapes.

"This is darling," Hannah said, brushing past him and kicking a pillow out of her way. Stuffing blurted out of a tear in the fabric and hung in the air before settling down, adding a layer of orange and brown curd to the already extant dust.

The look on her face at that brought the tiniest of smiles to George's face.

Astoria brushed past him as well and strode to the center of the room and put her hands on her hips. "We can definitely work with this," she agreed. "Look at that arch," she waved her hand towards a curved entry to what had probably been a dining area in some long-distant era.

"And the built-ins," Hannah enthused, opening a cupboard George hadn't even seen and banishing a Greg-shaped boggart without missing a beat. "This place has great bones, George."

"It's filthy," Neville said, hovering on the threshold as both women began banishing dust and repairing glass with a determined vigor that frightened him. 

"It's a bit of a project," Hannah admitted, "but we can have it set right in no time."

"I'm going to Floo Daphne," Astoria muttered after her fourteenth _scourgify_. "I'm sure she knows the name of a good cleaning company. This may take the work of - "

"Good idea," Hannah said. "While they're dealing with the dust and - George, I don't know how to tell you this but you shouldn't sit on that sofa because I think there might be a pixie infestation - the slight pest problem - Neville, darling, don't touch that - we can furnish it and - "

"Curtains," Astoria breathed. "And a new living room set, and - "

"Dishes," Hannah said, a gleam in her eye. "And bedding and - "

"And he'll need a cleaning woman," Astoria said. "Maybe a live in. You know how men are."

"I know a girl," Hannah said, "A bit younger than us but she was in Hufflepuff with me, very nice, and a genius at cooking. Her parents are a bit rough and she could use a place to - "

"Perfect," Astoria said, and when she turned to look at George Weasley he paled. It was easy to forget this sweet woman, perpetually run ragged by her toddler, was no less intelligent and just as scheming as her older sister. He could see her designing wedding invitations in her head already. "You wouldn't mind taking a girl in, would you George? Someone in need of a place to shelter? It's really quite mutually beneficial since I'm sure you can't cook at all and she'll keep you from living in filth and - "

"Of course he won't mind." Hannah took Astoria's arm and led her up the stairs. "Let's take a look up here. I think we'll need to make a list of what to order. Do you think Daphne knows - ?“

And then they were out of earshot, muffled behind some door on the second floor of the dilapidated cottage, and the silence seemed to taunt the men left behind.

"What just happened?" George asked Neville, his voice wary in that silence.

"I think you've been the victim of matchmaking,” Neville said, looking a bit ambushed himself, “and, if you have any strong preferences as to what you want this place to look like by the time they're done, I'd be sure to tell them, well, now before they've apparated themselves off to London to start shop -"

There was a loud pop from upstairs.

"Too late," George said but he had a smile on his face and was looking around the cottage with an almost hopeful air. "It's pretty nice, isn't it," he asked.

Neville looked at the dirty, dusty room with its filthy windows and pest-infested sofa and said, very quietly, "Yeah, it is. Welcome home, my friend."

. . . . . . . . . .

“Got it!” Daphne thrust a fist into the air and leaned back in her chair. Percy Weasley, working on layering silencing and stabilization charms over what had become his and Theo’s room, looked over with idle curiosity.

“Do I want to know?” he asked.

“This stupid scroll that lists off the birth all the magical babies in Wizarding Britain,” Daphne crowed. “I finally got a copy of the damned thing that actually works. We have our very own notification system now.” She grinned over at Percy. “Who would have thought this would be the hard part.” She looked over at a clock. “Speaking of hard, Marcus’ll be here soon.”

It amused her that Percy could still blush. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco sat with his wife, the terrifying Minister of Magic, in the middle of their living room floor. She was in that tired early stage of pregnancy, a stage made harder to cope with because she absolutely didn’t want to tell anyone.

“Not even Theo?” Draco had asked and she’d shaken her head.

“I couldn’t bear their sympathy if…” and he’d nodded. This time they would keep it a secret until they couldn’t hide it anymore.

Now he threw down another card onto their Exploding Snap game and cackled as he took the hand. “To think you’re a strategic genius,” he needled her.

“This game depends a lot on luck,” she objected as he gathered up the cards to get ready for another round.

“_And_ skill,” he said. “Something you, my dear, are lacking.

She laughed and leered at him. “I can show you my skills in other areas, if you’d like.” Her lasciviousness was, however, somewhat undercut by the way she yawned.

“Or I could rub your feet,” Draco suggested, banishing the cards back to a drawer.

“That would be nice,” Hermione admitted. “I’m sorry I’m so tired all the – “

He cut her off by kneeling forward and putting a finger to her lips. “I love you,” he said, “and you’re pregnant with our child and you will not apologize to me because you are tired as a result.”

“Bossy,” she said, yawning again. “Pushy, arrogant prat.”

“Of course,” he said, scooping her up and carrying her towards their bedroom. “And an evil bully, I know. But you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“As long as I have you,” she said, nestling against his chest, “You can be however you want.”

“As long as I have you,” he repeated her words, “you be whomever you want.”

“Deal,” she said.

. . . . . . . . . . .

They all apparated to the edge of the Hogwarts property and then Blaise tucked himself under the invisibility cloak while Percy waited, with grave patience, for someone to let him in the gate. Percy walked up the path with the young Muggle Studies teacher, a woman he didn’t know, and let her talk at him about Muggle literature while Blaise took himself off to the Head’s office to replace the magical scroll listing all magical births.

It was a mighty handy thing, that invisibility cloak. 

Ron had certainly found it so.

Harry too.

Blaise wondered, as he tucked the scroll back, whether anyone had thought to tell Hermione that they had discovered, that day they’d slaughtered Kingsley, that Harry hadn’t been at all complicit in Ron’s schemes, or, at least not complicit enough to have loaned the man his cloak.

He suspected they ought to let her know about that before she accidentally killed Harry.

. . . . . . . . . .

“How go the plans for world domination?” Harry asked when Hermione came into his cell for her weekly gloating session. “Taken over France yet?”

She looked a little pale this week, and tired. There were bags under her eyes and her skin seemed oiler than usual. Harry decided not to comment; telling your jailer she looked lousy was probably not the wisest move ever.

“No,” she said, “We’ve decided against France.”

“Well then, who’d you kill this week?”

“No one, actually,” she said. “Haven’t killed anyone in a while.” She looked down at her nails and he watched as she worried a bit at a cuticle. “Didn’t even kill Bill when he was our test subject for the changeling thing, just obliviated him and sent him off to live with Fleur. They’re disgustingly happy.”

“Gotta hate it when people are happy,” Harry agreed.

“Molly’s dead,” she said and he blanched. 

“I thought you said you hadn’t killed anyone,” Harry said.

“Technically, she killed herself.” Hermione looked up at him, her eyes almost empty. “She helped Ron kill our baby and that meant she had to die, you see.”

“How did you do it?” Harry asked.

“Blaise imperioused her,” Hermione said. “He’s very good at that.”

“A skill to be proud of,” Harry said with no inflection in his voice. “Anyone else.”

“Shacklebolt,” she admitted.

“Helped Ron, did he?” Harry asked feeling a little sick at the notion, wondering if it were true.

“Gave him the book with the spells,” Hermione said. She was back to picking at her nails. “_Terminetur graviditate._”

“My Latin’s not very good,” Harry said, his voice oddly gentle in his prison cell. “What does that mean.”

“Let the pregnancy be terminated,” Hermione whispered.

Harry closed his eyes. Oh, Ron, he thought. What did you do? How could you have done that on purpose? He’d thought it had to be a mistake, that Ron had lashed out the way he did when he was angry. But he’d prepared. He’d planned. Harry buried his head in his hands as he sat on his bed.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise started organizing the marches once school was out. “Queen,” people shouted as they walked. “We want a queen.”

The _Daily Prophet _ran editorials calling for a return to the days when people had a leader they trusted, one selected for magical power rather than political favors curried.

“Because we’re so bad at politics?” Hermione had asked when she read that one and Theo had laughed.

Children sent in petitions asking Hermione to be queen with big, charming signatures in brightly colored ink that the _Prophet_ reproduced.

“What’s the difference,” would-be-jaded citizens asked each other. “The Minister is a position for life, isn’t it? Better a successor raised to the job than some random political hack.”

By the third march Marcus had crowd control down to an art. People would gather and walk, shouting their demands. Anyone who might think of starting a scuffle was isolated from the group, confounded, and sent on his way. After the fourth Hermione appeared, laughingly protesting that she was hardly royalty. 

“You’re royal if we put a crown on your head,” someone shouted and Hermione laughed again, politician’s smile on her face, and waved. 


	48. Chapter 48

Narcissa Malfoy smiled as she poured out the tea. The green glazed cups were a lovely addition to her collection and she paused for a moment to admire the cracking in the glaze and the way gold had been used to repair one of the cups. 

"It's always a delight to see you," Eustacia Parkinson said as she added milk to her tea, "but, forgive me, I'm wondering what you want?"

"Is it not possible I simply wanted the pleasure of your company?" Narcissa asked. "One lump or two?"

"Two please," Eustacia said. "And unlikely."

Narcissa smiled as she took a delicate sip. Trust Eustacia to have no patience for games. "I am looking for someone to assist me with a fairly sensitive project."

Eustacia raised a manicured eyebrow.

"How do you feel about adoption?" Narcissa asked.

Eustacia allowed a beat to pass before she returned the smile. "I thought that orphanage had been almost completely dismantled and that Arthur Weasley was overseeing its closing. Rather nice choice, that, I thought."

"Yes," Narcissa acknowledged. "And it's going quite well. Did you know George Weasley is taking in several children?"

"A bachelor?" Eustacia allowed a hint of surprise to creep into her tone.

"Not, I think, for long," Narcissa said and, at Eustacia's quietly curious expression, she added, "A Hufflepuff, quite a bit younger than he is. Astoria Greengrass - excuse me, Goyle - found her, slipped her into the man's life as a housekeeper of all things."

"One of ours?" Eustacia asked.

"Related to the Bullstrodes," Narcissa acknowledged, "though descent has been primarily through matrilineal lines."

"Well, that's a loose end tied up," Eustacia said.

"The orphanage has been a, well, let us call it a _finite_ problem," Narcissa said. "Disgraceful, certainly, but one that ends. I have a somewhat more long term issue for you to consider."

"One involving adoption?" Eustacia asked.

Narcissa nodded. "It requires discretion, a commitment to traditional values combined with a, shall I say, flexible attitude towards blood purity."

"And morals?"

"Flexibility there as well would be optimal," Narcissa said. 

"You've successfully caught my interest," Eustacia said, leaning back in her seat and sipping from her teacup. "What are you planning?"

"Has it ever struck you as unfortunate that some magical children are born to non-magical parents?" Narcissa asked.

"Indeed," Eustacia said. “A mystery, I admit. Squib grandparents? Spontaneous appearance of magic?”

"However it happens, they’re raised in ignorance of their abilities, forced to integrate into our world right at the cusp of puberty..."

"It's a recipe for disaster." Eustacia admitted. “ I’m surprised the level of prejudice is as low as it is, really.”

"All magical children are precious," Narcissa said. "All of them should be raised by magical parents who can guide them through early bouts of accidental magic, help them learn to navigate our admittedly somewhat insular culture."

"I assume their natural parents would remain unaware - "

"Of everything. They'll mourn changelings."

"Crib death is tragic," Eustacia said, "but it happens."

"You understand the need for absolute discretion and loyalty?" Narcissa nearly purred.

"This will, indeed, be an ongoing issue." Eustacia frowned. "I think having a handful of families selected that take these children in every generation would be best. Keep the information close."

Narcissa smiled. "Do you have any suggestions?"

She did and the women spent the rest of the afternoon outlining the ways the Project Changeling children would be placed.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione swallowed the draught and made a face. “This is vile,” she said. “Are you sure you aren’t trying to kill me?”

Draco took the glass out of her hand and set it on their kitchen counter. “Don’t even joke,” he said. “It’s supposed to help you feel better. I hate how this pregnancy is so hard on you.” 

She sighed and slipped into his arms and he stood there, embracing her, and let himself feel both the way she’d become more fragile and the way her abdomen pressed out, curving into him with the slow growth of their child. “I’ll keep you safe this time,” he promised, tightening his grip. 

“We have to do the public event today,” Hermione said, her voice muffled against his chest. “You know we do.”

“I know,” he said. “And you’ll have so many wards around you, you might actually sparkle. On top of that, Marcus has the crowd seeded with our own people and they’ve all got orders to curse first and ask questions later. It’s as safe as Blaise, Theo and I can make it and I’m still going to be scared as hell until I have you safely back within these walls.”

Hermione shivered as he held onto her. “I love you,” she said at last. “I hold on to that some times, when it seems like I’ve lost everything else.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered. “I don’t want anything but you.” 

They stood there, together, until Theo let himself into their flat and, spotting them, sighed.

“Honestly,” he said, “You aren’t even dressed yet. Hermione, go put on one of your dark witch costumes, including the power heels, and get ready to open the damn public Quidditch tournament. We’re supposed to be there in 30 minutes and you’re still in Draco’s old t-shirt.” 

Draco let the witch go and, giving him an achingly sad look, she headed back to their room to turn herself into the powerful and feared Minister of Magic. 

Theo looked at Draco. “You’re both just done, aren’t you?” he asked. Draco sighed and leaned back against the counter. 

“I suppose,” he said. “Certainly until after the baby is born and we’re not so damn afraid all the time.” He glanced over at the clock on the wall. “Duty calls, though, and I drugged her up to get her through this. Let’s go give the masses their damn bread.”

“It will be fine,” Theo said. “And circuses.”

“Mustn’t forget that,” Draco agreed. “Fucking morons, all of them. They don’t deserve a moment of her time.”

“Agreed,” Theo said, “but you two built this. It’s your kingdom.”

“Queendom,” Draco said.

Theo shrugged. “It is what it is. And we’ve got people ready to demand she accept that crown and queenship once these public relations money dumps are all in motion, so let’s get her to the pitch at Hogwarts to announce the start of the summer charity match. The sooner we get this done, the sooner she’s queen and the sooner you two can announce the impending birth of the little prince and her decision to go into seclusion.”

Draco pushed himself forward and said, “Then let’s do it. She won’t stop until she feels like she can hand the whole thing over to Æthel in a neat package.”

Theo grasped his long-time friend’s hand. “You know the moment she wanted it again, we’d give it back, right?”

“I know,” Draco said. 

. . . . . . . . . .

McGonagall looked at the pile of resumes in front of her and sighed. The candidates were, to a man, incompetent, unrealistic, or loathsome. Some of them were all of the above. She threw another dart at the photo of Percy Weasely she’d attached to a board on her wall. The man dodged out of the way of the missile and glared at her. 

“Dark Arts,” she hissed as she sorted through the pile looking, again, for someone she could tolerate. “At Hogwarts. Dumbledore must be turning over in his grave.”

. . . . . . . . .

Æthel shuffled her feet as she looked at her Aunt ‘Mione; the woman was sitting at her kitchen table with papers spread out before her, a long since cooled put of tea shoved out of reach. She smiled at the waiting child, eyes softening a little from their usual coldness. “Can I help you, sweetie?” she asked, half her attention still on her plans.

“I want to swear fealty,” Æthel said. She got the words out in a rush, not trusting her aunt, beloved as she may be, to not cut her off.

Hermione put down her quill and turned all the way toward her niece. She regarded the girl with a measuring look for a bit and finally said, “May I ask why?”

Æthel crossed the sunny kitchen and lay her hands on her aunt’s belly; the swelling was becoming more obvious, though clever wardrobe choices, some concealment charms, and careful placement behind half walls when she addressed the public had kept the pregnancy mostly a secret. “You’re leaving,” the girl said, looking not at her aunt’s face but at her own hands. 

“What makes you say that?” Hermione asked.

Æthel shrugged. “I listen,” she said. 

Hermione nodded at that. “And why does that make you think it’s a good idea to swear fealty?”

“Because people will think I’m stealing your crown,” Æthel said and Hermione controlled the way her breath nearly caught in her throat. So perceptive, this child was. 

“I don’t have a crown,” Hermione said, quietly sidestepping the observation.

“You will,” Æthel insisted, “and then you’ll give it to me.”

“When you’re older, yes,” Hermione said. 

“Because Nimue anoints,” Æthel said.

“You do listen.” Hermione sighed and leaned back in the kitchen chair. “People may say you’ve stolen the crown, it’s true. They’ll want my child to inherit; your father had wanted me to have a baby just to make a tot to catch the public’s eye. With you we’ve decided to play it a bit differently. You’re still an aristocrat, can’t hide that, not with Theo as your father.”

“And Daphne,” Æthel said.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “And Daphne. Sacred Twenty-Eight, both of them. Purebloods among purebloods. But you’re more than the storybook princess, you’re the orphan, raised in penury. It’s romantic. Quaint. Magical, even.”

“I have to swear,” Æthel insisted. “If I’m your vassal it will – “

“Make you beholden to me,” Hermione cut the girl off. “Magically bound. Blaise, Draco, your father – that bond isn’t a trivial thing. It isn’t something to do on a whim.”

“And it will be better than adoption,” the girl said, a stubborn thrust to her jaw. “And I know what the vow does.”

“So I understand,” Hermione said, “But you know it from the other end, as the queen, not as the servant. Bind yourself to me and all your own vassals become mine as well.”

Æthel just regarded her aunt with unblinking eyes until Hermione laughed. “Ask your father,” she finally said. “And if you can talk your way around him we’ll do the bonding on your birthday.”

Æthel gently wrapped her arms around her aunt who pulled her in for a tight hug. “I’m not going to break,” Hermione said. “I’m tired, certainly, but the baby is pretty well cushioned in there.”

“My cousin,” Æthel said, patting Hermione’s belly. “I’ll teach her to fly and to –“

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione said with a groan. “Not that. I’ve seen you fly. You’re a menace.”

“I’m trying out for Seeker next year,” Æthel said with a grin.

“Of course you are,” Hermione said. “Go find your uncle Draco and see if he can give you some pointers. Just… don’t let me see. That much anxiety can’t possibly be healthy.”

Æthel kissed Hermione on the cheek and skipped off, smugly confident in her ability to talk her way round her father. After all, she was right. This would eliminate so many accusations that she was stealing her aunt’s crown. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Neville tromped his way through the grasses, three small boys following him, as he made his way towards George’s cottage. “George,” he called out, wanting to alert the man he was coming. “You home?”

George stuck his head out the window of the cottage and asked, “Kids with you?”

“Ayup,” Neville said.

“I’ll get the biscuits down then,” the man said and, at that, the boys trailing in Neville’s wake shot out ahead of him, pushed their way through the gate into the small but manicured garden, and then into the cottage. Neville could hear squealing laughter as George insisted he had no biscuits at all, what were they talking about. The man’s newest trick was Muggle sleight of hand and he’d become adept at pulling treats out of ears and such.

Neville leaned against the doorframe and watched George play with the boys. Sarah, the housekeeper Astoria had dumped on George, was sitting at the table shelling peas as the two children they’d taken in themselves joined with Neville’s three to run around and around her and the table as if they were a tornado. She just smiled at them. 

“Doesn’t that make you crazy?” Neville asked her.

She laughed. “They’re boys. They don’t stop moving until they fall into bed and then they’re up with the light and ready to do it again. It’s good there’s so many of them. Keeps them out of my hair.”

Neville looked at George and George sighed. “Not totally a social visit, I take it?” he asked.

“How do you feel about more neighbors?” Neville asked. 

“Who?” Sarah’s voice was as calm as the rest of her as she separated pea after pea from their shells and put the peas into one bowl and the shells in another. She stopped one of the boys on his circle around the table and said, “Can you take the this out to the compost pile for me?”

He grabbed the bowl and the whole passel of boys followed him out into the yard.

“If you’re lucky about half of that may actually make its way to the compost pile,” George said. “I’d lay odds the rest of it will get dumped on someone’s head.”

Sarah shrugged, still unruffled. “We’re raising boys,” she said. “Some head dumping is inevitable.”

“Malfoy was up here inquiring about cottages,” Neville said, his voice neutral. “That means he and Hermione are thinking of moving up. I didn’t want to steer them in this direction until I talked to you about it.”

“Because he killed my brother?” George asked, humor leaving his face. 

Neville sighed and rubbed between his eyes. “I’m not sure what all they’ve done, to be honest. I suspect killing Ron is just the beginning. But you’ve already got Greg up here all the time with that hellion toddler of theirs. I’m not sure how many more members of Hermione’s little inner circle you can bear and you’ve borne enough.”

“I like Alicia,” Sarah said. “She’s not afraid of anything.”

“She’s not afraid of putting everything in her mouth, she’s not afraid of yanking on the ears of strange dogs, she’s not afraid of wild animals. You’re quite right that she’s not afraid of anything. It’s what makes her so bloody exhausting to be around,” George said.

“She has very pretty eyes,” Sarah said, getting up and putting the peas into a pot. “Are you and the boys staying for dinner, Neville?”

George and Neville looked at one another. “Yes,” Neville said very quietly. “I suppose she does have pretty eyes.” He shook his head as though to clear a thought out of it. “And I can’t stay. Hannah’s trying some new recipe and I’ve been informed if I’m not there on time she’ll be quite put out with me.”

“Why is she coming here,” George asked. “Why now?”

“To heal, I suppose,” Neville said. “To hide.”

“She’s the queen of the goddamned world,” George said, “or near enough as makes no difference. What does she need to bloody well hide from.”

“Probably the world,” Neville said. “If you don’t want them near you I’ll tell Malfoy I don’t think there’s anything suitable around.”

George sighed and sank down into the chair Sarah had vacated. “No. If they need… maybe that damn weird tree ring will help her too.” Sarah moved back towards the table to clean up the rest of her shelling mess and dropped a kiss on George’s temple. He took her hand and Neville watched them.

“We can keep the boys for a bit,” George said. “I can walk them home for dinner. They’re all having so much fun out there.”

“Sounds good,” Neville said. 

. . . . . . . . . . .

Blaise looked at Hermione. She was tired, her skin managed to look both grey and oily at the same time. And she was swollen.

“When are you due,” he asked quietly and she reached for her wand.

“You don’t need to do that,” Blaise said. “You know I’m not going to curse my pregnant queen. If you want to kill me, my life is yours. If you want to hurt me, I’ll kneel at your feet and make it easy for you. But you don’t look good. You look tired and worn out and I’m worried.” He pulled out a package. “I also have something for you.”

She took it from him. “What is it?”

“Potter’s invisibility cloak,” Blaise said, “We got it from Weasley and I used it to handle some of Project Changling.” “He didn’t know, you know,” Blaise added as she weighed the package in her hands. “Potter. Weasley stole the cloak. Shacklebolt helped him. But Potter wasn’t guilty of anything more than being a lousy friend and a cheating husband.”

She nodded and sat down. “I’m so tired, Blaise,” she said.

He did kneel down at her feet then. “We’ve got this, you know. Theo and Daphne and me and Luna. We have this. You can let it go.”

“I made the world,” she said. 

“Changed it,” Blaise agreed. “Gave us all safety and power and pulled the Muggle-borns into the fold.”

She smiled a little wanly. “We haven’t quite done the last bit yet.”

“We will,” Blaise said. “We’ve got the scroll copied, the spell work all tested. Narcissa will get the adoption system in place.” He brushed some of her hair out of her face. “Let us take care of you for a little while.”

Hermione sighed. “Got you your money back too,” she said. 

Blaise laughed. “That you did.”

“Blaise,” Hermione said, “why does it feel like I gained the world and lost my soul?”


	49. Chapter 49

Draco pushed the door open and looked around the little cottage. Neville had recommended it. “Close enough to the village to walk if you don’t mind a bit of a ramble,” he’d said, “but far enough away no one will come out to bother you.” Draco had noticed Neville hadn’t mentioned that the building was also about as far away from George’s new home that Neville could suggest. 

Sweet Neville Longbottom, he thought as he walked into the main room. Just because he and Hermione were letting go of their public lives didn’t mean either of them had quite become dense enough to not notice they were being handled with kid gloves by Neville’s set. You should be afraid, Draco thought, because if anyone hurts her again I’ll make what we did to Shacklebolt look like a day at the spa.

The cottage, however, was as close to perfect as he could have hoped for. It looked like something out of a fairy story with curved door frames and windows with dozens of panes and a worn wooden floor. Roses climbed over the outside walls and their scent filled this main room. He ran a hand over a solid table that sat in the center of the main room.

“We can have that removed, of course,” the real estate agent said somewhat nervously. “The last owners left it but we can – “

“No,” Draco said quietly. “It’s perfect.”

It was the antithesis of their first sophisticated flat and was a strong contrast to even their current place. He turned to the witch standing behind him in the doorway. “Get it cleaned, of course, and tell the owners we’ll meet their asking price plus ten percent. I also want as much of the surrounding land as you can buy up. Get it all and send the bill to my office.” He paused. “Leave the table.”

The witch blinked several times and then began to burble with thanks about how she wouldn’t let him down. Draco grimaced in irritation; she sounded like a bloody house elf. 

He made a mental note to ask his mother to find a house elf for the cottage. He didn’t want Hermione cleaning, not in her condition. He also wanted to find some kind of day nanny who could live in the village. It would have to be someone willing to undergo legilimancy, of course. He wasn’t letting anyone near Hermione until he’d searched every last corner of her mind for any kind of ill intent.

He’d get it all lined up. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Eustacia Parkinson handed the baby, wrapped tight in a polyester Muggle blanket, to her new parents. “She’s so beautiful,” the witch cooed as she looked down at the sleeping girl. “She’s absolutely perfect.”

“You understand the arrangement,” Eustacia said again and the girl’s new father looked over at the pureblood matriarch.

“We do,” he said. “She’ll never want for anything and no one will ever know. She’s our girl now. Our magical, pureblood, perfect girl.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The Muggle woman walked into the nursery and began to scream. Every parent’s nightmare had come true and her baby wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing. 

Crib death. Tragic, people said. No one’s fault. Just one of those awful things that can happen.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise and Luna sprawled on the grass patch Blaise had included in Luna’s orangerie. The landscape architect had asked why and then blushed to the roots of his hair when Blaise had commented the pavers were uncomfortable to lay on when you were fucking. 

“Soft grasses, then,” was all the man had said.

Now Luna lay, her hair spilling out over that soft grass and catching the light of the full moon as it poured in through the ceiling. Blaise had enchanted the oranges to all glow as well and they hung like an endless array of smaller, silver moons and lit the glass house. “I love this place,” Luna said. “It’s just absolute perfection.”

“I would do anything for you,” Blaise said, leaning up on one elbow to look down at her sated face. “A small gardening project is trivial.”

She reached a hand up to stroke his cheekbones. “Have you figured out the ley lines issue you were looking into?” she asked.

“I think so,” he admitted. “There’s an actual old oak circle up near Neville’s village, sitting right where two of the lines cross.”

“Oooo,” Luna looked intrigued. “We’ll have to go visit it.”

“You feel in need of healing?” Blaise asked and she laughed, the sound like bells in the already magical space. “Well,” he said when her tones died away, “That’s what that circle seems to do. It seems to give people a sense of peace. Or calm. It’s some kind of place where the waters still and the very air settles.”

Luna sat up. “Then we absolutely have to go. That’s fascinating.” She summoned an orange and began to peel the silvery skin. As each bit of rind was stripped away from the fruit it lost it’s magic and faded back to a dull orange, dark grey in the night. She separated a segment and slipped it between Blaise’s lips. He watched her as he chewed and swallowed. “It’s good, I think, that Hermione is moving up there,” she said at last. “It broke her.”

“What?” Blaise asked, reaching his hand out for another slice. Luna batted his hand away and put the orange piece between her own teeth and leaned down to pass it to him. He took it from her with a throaty chuckle. “Have I ever mentioned how I adore you?”

“Once or twice,” she said.

“Power does that,” he said as she popped some of the orange into her own mouth.

“Makes you adore me?” Luna asked. 

Blaise laughed. “No, lunar one. It breaks you. Look at Draco and Hermione. They went after power and got it but at what cost? They lost their baby, almost lost their minds.” He shook his head. “They need those trees, need that respite.”

“Theo and Daphne?” Luna asked, summoning another orange and beginning to peel it.

“Both trapped in a sham marriage?” Blaise asked wryly. “Theo’s denying a basic part of who he is to wield power. That sounds like a pretty big cost to me.” He sat up and began taking the bits of peel Luna had left on the grass and arranging them into a circle. “Of course, I don’t think he exactly objects.”

“Makes it even more expensive,” Luna said.

Blaise sighed. “What’s my cost? I wonder. What price have I paid?”

Luna took his fingers in hers. “You never wanted power,” she said quietly. “You wanted a world safe from Muggles. You wanted to be able to live without fear. It was never more than a means to an end for you.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “That’s why we have lovely orange trees instead of oaks.”

“We aren’t what I’d call good people,” Blaise said, thinking of Shacklebolt’s body lying in pieces on his white carpet.

“No one’s good,” Luna said.

“Neville?” Blaise asked.

“Co-opted to the Wizengamot,” she said. “We all sell pieces of our souls.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione stood on the dais in the park.

Security had given Marcus fits. Actual, literal fits and he’d needed to take an ant-seizure potion when the stress had gotten too bad. “You want to do it _outdoors_?” he’d shrieked at her. “How are we supposed to keep you safe?”

Her smile had been tight but she’d said, “We need everyone to see it. It has to be a coronation by the people, not by the powerful.”

“You are going to be the death of me,” he’d snapped. “And I mean that. If anyone _looks_ at you wrong, Draco will use my intestines for jump rope.”

“He can be a little protective,” Hermione agreed and Marcus had mimed pulling his hair out by the roots. 

The layers of warding and notice-me-not spells made the whole park almost glitter. Even Muggles walking by, seeing only what looked a bit like an outdoor wedding put on by a bunch of hippies, rubbed at their arms. “Feels like it might thunder,” one woman said as she looked around. “So much electricity in the air.” 

Æthel stood with a gaggle of children from the orphanage. Every child old enough to be trust to follow instructions had a flower crown in his or her hands, each of which had been woven together from roadside weeds. They were surrounded by a group of Knights of the Lady. More Knights were scattered through the crowd and lined up to the side and behind the dais.

“Are we ready?” Theo asked. Draco nodded and, with a sharp signal, Theo waved Æthel forward. Witches and wizards clapped and cheered as each child climbed up to the dais and lay his or her crown on Hermione’s head.

Each floral wreath shimmered and writhed and added to a growing silver crown that took shape.

Transfiguration, Draco thought looking at the procession. Even when the audience is filled with magicians they’re still enchanted by the simple symbolism of flowers turning to that crown. And when we’re done we just swap out the magically created crown for one that can’t be undone or uncreated with a simple finite and she’s the queen, made so by the will of the people calling her name.

“I am honored and humbled,” Hermione said. “You’ve put such a huge trust in me as we’ve returned our world to the days of tradition and power and magic. Magic is greater than bureaucracy. Our world is a living one of wonders and fancies and we are all blessed beyond measure to live within its safe embrace.” She reached up to touch the crown on her head. “Thank you.”

“Hermione!” voices screamed from the crowd. “Lady! Queen!”

She held up her hand and Draco quietly transfigured the stick she’d had hidden in her fist to a scepter to the sound of gasps, applause and cheers. 

“Our Queen!” the people yelled. “Our Queen! May she be glorious and beautiful and beloved!”

She is, Draco thought, watching her. She is.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione leaned up against the wall near the door of Harry’s cell. He set his book aside and looked at her. “Nice crown,” he said at last. “I take it you finally got your heart’s desire and were named absolute ruler?”

She picked it off and tossed it to him. He caught it and watched as, at her finite, it faded to a handful of wilted flowers in his hands. “Sic transit gloria mundi,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said.

“The orphanage is finally totally closed,” she said. “Every child adopted out. They’re all Æthel’s little minions, of course. Her round table.”

Harry eyed her. “How are your own minions? Still murderous and bloodthirsty?”

“Happily married, one and all,” she said. “Upstanding members of society.” 

“How about you?” he asked. “Happy? Murderous? Bloodthirsty?”

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowing, before she said, “You know, technically I haven’t killed anyone. Draco has. Blaise has, I’m sure. Theo, without a doubt. But my hands didn’t do any of that actual work.”

“Seems a bit of a fine line,” Harry said.

“People claim your hands are clean of Voldemort’s blood because he died of his own, rebounded curse. Also a bit of nitpicking but I’ve certainly heard you cling to that as an example of your unblemished virtue often enough.”

Harry stood up and walked toward her. “You’ve closed down the orphanage. You’ve set up your bread and circus tricks. You’ve ripped property away and returned it to the wealthy and, as a result, they all crowned you. Bet that felt good, didn’t it? At last you weren’t the side-kick. At last you were the lead story. You won, Hermione. And all you had to do was turn yourself into Voldemort to do it. Nice job.” He clapped slowly, a mocking smile on his face. “All hail Queen Hermione. Dark Lady. Seller of Corrupt Dreams. Poisoner of Wells. What next, Hermione?” He stopped clapping and took another step toward her. “You took my wife. Took my child. Lost your own. What’s next on your world domination agenda? Maybe you could – “

But she’d launched herself at him and had her wand, shaking, pressed into his neck. He inhaled at the jabbing pain but didn’t back away. “Don’t you _ever_ talk about my son,” she hissed. “I will never _ever _forgive myself that he died. Don’t you _ever_ talk about him to me. I will kill you Harry Potter. I will chop your body into pieces and let you _rot _in this basement cell.” She was shaking as she held her wand into him, shaking so hard she could barely hold the wood in her hand.

“Is that what you want, Hermione?” Harry hissed back. “You want to finally become a murderer? Go ahead and do it. Kill me right now. Maybe you can use my death to make a little Horcrux for yourself. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?”

She pulled one hand back to slap him and he grabbed her wrist and they stared at one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sic transit Gloria mundi = “Thus passes the glory of the world.”


	50. Chapter 50

“Fuck you, Harry,” Hermione hissed at him, her wrist in his grip. “You sodding bastard. Where were you when I needed you after the war? Where were you when Ron decided it was a great idea to hit me? I’ll tell you where you were. You were safe in the bosom of your surrogate family – Ron’s family - and you decided you cared a lot more about having them then you cared about me, the girl who’d saved your life over and over again.”

. . . . . . . . . .

McGonagall nearly spit as she finished her letter to Percy Weasley. _I believe we have found a Dark Arts professor that will suffice_, she wrote. _He assures us that he will be able to teach during the day as long as the curtains are thick enough and that he has not drunk human blood, other than from blood banks, in several years. As I have said before, I remain of the opinion that introducing formal Dark Arts instruction to Hogwarts is a mistake but I will abide by the decision of the Board of Governors. We have also hired a new History teacher, a woman named Cassandra Gall, who seems to have some very interesting ideas about the curriculum and I think she will make an exciting edition to the staff. Tracey Davis has offered to set up the new Wizarding Studies curriculum for the Muggle-born students and she and Narcissa Malfoy have been back and forth to the castle every other weekend getting prepared. I hope this note finds you in good health and you and Theo and Daphne will join us for a little meet and greet before the students arrive. _

She rolled the parchment up and attached it to the leg of the waiting owl before she gave into the urge to tell Percy Weasley what he and his evil lover could do with their Dark Arts ideas.

. . . . . . . . . .

“That wasn’t how it was,” Harry protested. “After the war there were things we did, Hermione. Things that made people feel safer, feel secure, and you wanted nothing to do with that. You wouldn’t participate at all in the –“

“In the propaganda?” she interrupted him. “I shall not tell lies, remember?”

“Fuck you, Hermione. You wanted to be so holier than thou, so perfect, and look at you now. How’s that propaganda taste _now_? We just wanted people to feel safe after a war but you’ve convinced them black is bloody white and up is down!”

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo ruffled Æthel’s hair as he walked by the girl. She had been doing a summer research project on Potions for extra credit and had a table full of carefully tabulated notes in front of her she was writing up. You have to work harder than anyone else, he’d told her. Be less arrogant, more charming. Be humble and studious and a delight because you’ll be queen and they’ll hold any schoolyard slight against you for years. She’d grinned at him and he’d laughed. Nothing quite like a childhood in an orphanage to shape a person; it had turned Riddle into a monster and it had turned this one into a savvy little thing with street smarts to spare. She’d be a brilliant queen.

“Love you, angel,” he said. “Project go well?”

“Yep,” she said. “Uncle Neville let me use a lot of his plants so I’ve got a really great comparison between fresh ingredients and what you can buy through potion supply houses.”

“I assume Neville’s plants were more effective,” Theo said dryly. At least the weekly trips up to white-knuckle his way through her play dates with Neville’s boys hadn’t been only about terrorizing him. As far as he could tell she hadn’t accepted the fealty of any more of the rag tag crew of urchins that followed her, goslings to her mother goose, but she was a sneaky thing.

“Of course they were,” she said, “It wasn’t a hard project/” 

“Your mum and I are going out tonight,” he said.

“Another charity fundraiser?” Æthel asked.

“Of course,” Theo said. “I think she’s cutting a ribbon at a food bank. Percy and Marcus’ll be home. Try not to scare them too badly.”

“Yes, dad,” she said with exasperated tone in her voice that made him laugh. Adolescence was on its way. Dear Merlin, he dreaded her dating.

. . . . . . . . . .

“We had to,” she snapped at him. “People don’t want to hear the truth, they want to be comforted by lies.”

“I shall not tell lies,” he mocked her. “I guess ‘We plan to dismantle your democracy, steal your assets and make you cheer us’ didn’t have quite the same approval rating as ‘Nimue’ did they?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about with her,” Hermione said, wrenching her hand away. “You don’t know what it’s like to have something that powerful in your head all the time.”

Harry began to laugh. “Tell me again how I don’t know what it’s like to have a monster in your head, Hermione.” He stepped toward her until there was almost no space between them. “Don’t blame your little world conquest game on your magical parasite. You did that all on your own. You invited her in and now you don’t like having her there. Well, too bad.”

“We didn’t invite her in,” Hermione said, her voice getting lower and lower. “I didn’t invite her in. When Ron killed _my son_ the blood sacrifice created a pathway she followed.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise pushed Luna on the swing he’d added to her orangerie. “Happy?” he asked her.

She dragged her shoe in the dirt to bring herself to a halt, turned and reached a hand up toward him. He bent down and she put her fingers behind his neck, pulled his mouth to hers and licked at his lips before sliding her tongue into his mouth.

When he broke the kiss Blaise said, “I take it that’s a yes?”

“All roads lead to you,” Luna said contentedly.

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry looked at her, her face beginning to crumble. “Your loss – “

“Made me a monster, yes.” Hermione pasted her mask back on and reached into her back pocket. Harry stilled as she handed him his wand. “I do believe we are even, Harry Potter. I destroyed you and you, or Ron, destroyed me.” She smiled at him. “Care to kill me? You can make me into a horcrux if you want. Isn’t that what you suggested I do to you?”

. . . . . . . . . .

Greg groaned as Astoria handed the squirming mass of giggling rebellion that was Alicia to him. 

“Your turn,” she said. “I’ve tried candy. I’ve tried threats. I’ve tried letting her run around without nappies. She has about as much interest in using the potty as I do in ancient Greek. If I don’t get out of here for a bit, I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Love you,” Greg said as Alicia began patting his face with her hands. 

“Love you, too,” Astoria said with a sigh. 

Greg caught her hand before she turned to go, hoisting Alicia onto one hip. “I really do, you know,” he said. 

“You’d have to,” Alicia muttered, “to be willing to potty train another man’s child.”

“She’s my daughter,” Greg insisted, his face tight with anger. “Not his. Never his.”

Astoria drooped. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know. This week has just been… they’re all potty trained by the time they go off to Hogwarts, right?”

“They are,” Greg said. “Go visit your sister and do evil things together in London, okay?”

“Evil?” Astoria cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Shoe shopping is evil,” Greg said. “And I’m sure she’s got some governmental thing she’ll want you to weigh in on. She always does.”

Astoria laughed and let go his hand. “I’ll see you both tonight,” she promised. 

. . . . . . . . . .

“Where do I go?” Harry said, staring at the wand in his hand. “What do I do now?”

“If I could interrupt this touching moment,” Draco Malfoy said from the hall, “I do think I have a solution.” He eyed Harry, “and, of course, if you raise that wand against my wife, I’ll have you in pieces before you can even _think_ of a spell.”

. . . . . . . . . .

George leaned back against the wall of the apartment above the diminutive joke shop he’d opened in what he continued to think of as ‘Neville’s village’. He’d hired – well, Theo Nott had hired on his behalf – staff to run the London store and people had hinted and prodded and suggested he open this one ‘just to keep your hand in’ until he’d finally done it.

The shop itself filled him with joy. It was a warren of little paths that revealed different tricks and goodies he’d come up with – they’d come up with – and so far everyone who’d walked through it had been delighted. He’d cleaned the apartment above it because it had been there, because it seemed wrong to leave the space dusty and unlivable even though there was no one to live in it. He’d asked his father whether he wanted it but Arthur had finally settled into a life without his beloved Molly and if he drank a little too much, well, no one could really blame him. He wanted to be left alone and no one who ended up in this apartment would be left alone; between the endless stream of children they’d all adopted from that wretched, finally closed, orphanage to Astoria’s unstoppable belief that she knew what was best for everyone to Hannah’s kindnesses no one who entered this space would ever be alone.

. . . . . . . . . .

As Draco laid out his suggestion Hermione’s eyes began to widen. Harry slowly nodded. “I’d like that,” he said. “I think maybe I’ve had enough of the conventional Weasley family. Maybe… maybe that would be better.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Marcus looked at the drawing Daphne slid toward him and ran a nervous hand through his hair before he admitted, “I’m not sure that’s physically possible, Daph.”

She leaned across the table, her waist pressed into edge and her hair falling forward, and studied it for a moment before she said, “Theo swears Percy can do it.”

“Percy?” Marcus grabbed Daphne’s hair with one hand and pulled it back, out of the way, and held it there with a sticking charm. “Our Percy?”

“I guess he’s started doing some kind of stretching exercises on the sly to stay fit,” Daphne said. 

Marcus narrowed his eyes but finally shrugged. “Well, I’ll try it, but if I end up hurting my back it’s your fault.”

“Backrubs for days,” Daphne promised.

“Don’t suppose you’d wear that white satin corset thing your mother gave you?” Marcus asked.

Daphne slid back across the table and settled into her chair and summoned the sketch back. She eyed it and then said, “I know I can’t bend that way in that corset. Steel bones and all.”

They both turned as the door opened and Percy let himself in, a bag in his hand. When he leaned over Daphne’s shoulder to look at the sketch he began to laugh. “You know that’s not physically possible, right?”

Marcus muttered something like, “I told you so,” even as Daphne protested, “Theo swore it was.”

“And you believed him?” Percy snorted. “Merlin, Daphne, it’s not like you to be so gullible.” He looked from the relieved Marcus to the grouchy Daphne and, sinking down into another chair at the table, pulled a container of blueberries out of his bag. “For you,” he said.

“Thanks,” Daphne said as she grabbed a handful. 

Percy began to laugh and Marcus asked him why. “It’s just… you know how I grew up. It was the most conventional family anyone has ever seen. Dad worked at the Ministry and mum cooked and knit and had baby after baby and I always just sort of assumed that’s what my family life had to be and now look at us.”

“I like our family,” Daphne said, popping another blueberry in her mouth. “Not everyone wants 2.5 kids and lumpy sweaters.”

“I like this. I like the power,” Percy admitted, “Even if it’s sometimes – “

“Dirty?”

“Yeah. I like it a lot more than a normal life with home cooking and such.”

“Me too,” Daphne grinned at him.

“Take away again?” Marcus asked with a sigh. “Æthel’s going to think none of her parents can cook.”

Percy shrugged. “None of us can,” he said.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Draco opened the door to the little cottage he’d purchased with one hand, the other held over Hermione’s eyes.

“Merlin, Draco,” she said. “I’m terrified I’m going to trip on something. When do I get to look?”

“Now,” he said, pulling his hand away. She looked around the room, her eyes moving from the archways to the shelves he’d filled with copies of all her favorite books to the large, wooden table. Draco watched her actually put her hand over her mouth as she climbed the stairs and peered into first their room and then, her hand shaking, into the small room with the walls he’d had painted a soft yellow. There was a crib and more shelves and a rocking chair by a window situated over a trellis laden with so many roses he was surprised it hadn’t pulled itself from the wall due to the sheer weight of the blooms. A basket on the floor was filled with stuffed toys and books that could be chewed on and he’d filled the shelves with cloth nappies.

“I know you don’t like house elves,” he said, “but you know my mother would be all over us to get a nanny if we don’t have one, so it seemed to me that an elf was the lesser of two evils, and if you have an elf you can do cloth diapers which I know you wanted. Something about them being ‘cuter’.”

“I can handle an elf,” Hermione said, the tears starting to slip from her eyes. “Draco, this is beautiful. It’s…. it’s so perfect.” She turned and he gathered her into his arms. “I can’t believe you went to all this trouble,” she said.

“There’s a lake just over the hill,” he said, “so your little passenger can be kept happy, and Neville’s little village is about an hour walk from here so you can see those people when you want to but it’s far enough away they aren’t just going to show up unannounced all the time.” He stopped to think. “Well, Astoria might. She apparates everywhere, and has opinions, and you know you won’t be able to keep Hannah away from a baby, but most people will take the hint that we’re this far out here so we can stay away from people for a bit.”

Hermione made a sniffling sound against his chest. “And if they get to be too much we’ll just go all scary Dark Queen Lady and her faithful consort on them and they’ll run for the hills.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” she finally said. “I know you wanted power, not me. Not this.”

“I did want power,” Draco said, “and revenge. And then you and those things. And now just you. Just you forever.”

“In a few more months it won’t be just me,” Hermione said.

“Just us,” Draco said, his hand on her swollen abdomen as they stood there in the nursery he’d made. “Just us.”

**~ epilogue ~**

Hermione curled her fingers into claws but kept herself from leaping up and yanking Cassiopeia off the broom that _surely_ wasn’t supposed to go that fast. 

“She’ll be fine,” Draco whispered in her ear. “I have so many cushioning charms on that thing she could go head first into a tree and nothing would happen.”

“If you say so,” she muttered. 

“I do,” he reassured her. “Do you think I’d let any harm come to her, ever?”

Hermione turned away from their curly-haired blonde terror of a daughter to look at Draco. “No,” she admitted. “You’d steal the world for her.”

“I did,” Draco said, leaning in toward Hermione to brush his lips over her temple. “’snot my fault you went and gave it to Æthel instead.”

“It’s what we both wanted,” Hermione said, her voice low.

Draco took her hand in his and squeezed it. “I know,” he said. “Peaceful lives for us and ours. Let the suckers in London deal with managing what we made. We get to enjoy a picnic and Theo and his crew get to sit in hot, miserable London and sort out the crises du jour.”

“You use this word, ‘enjoy’,” Hermione muttered as their daughter zoomed higher than any toy broom should go. Cassie had a tendency to unwind charms when no one was looking. “What is today’s crisis?” she asked.

Draco shrugged. “Something about increased potion ingredient imports risking currency devaluation. Do you really want to go up there and sort it out? You know how good Percy is at this kind of thing.”

“I’ll pass,” she said. “They can handle it. They can haul me out if they need a Queen to march about.”

“And they will,” Draco said. “People still love you. You’re the old magic brought to life, scary water spirit and all.”

She held his hand tightly and leaned her head against his shoulder as she turned back to watch her little hellion, who flew far too well for a mere five-year-old, chase after Alicia Goyle as if the older girl had chocolate stashed in her pockets.

Which, knowing Alicia, she very well might have.

Harry sat at the nearby table with Greg, both drinking beer with the caution of two men who are trying very hard not to step on each other’s toes. He watched Alicia fly with the hunger of a man trying to memorize every moment even as he said to Greg, “You two are such great parents.”

“Thank you,” Greg said, his voice stiff. “She’s a great kid.”

Hannah had put her foot down when Harry had moved into the apartment above George’s joke shop. “You owe me,” she said. “And this is how I choose to collect. You’ll find a way to let that man be a part of your girl’s life.”

“She’s my daughter,” Greg had said, his voice scared and desperate.

Hannah had put her hand over his. “I know,” she said, “and so does she. But you can let her birth father be a part of her life. It doesn’t make her not your girl.”

Now they sat, two wary men who would never be friends but who had found a way to co-exist, as Alicia dropped down from her broom to hug Greg. “Dad,” she said, “can we have some money to go to town and get things at the joke shop?”

“No,” Greg said. “You’ve got enough of George’s shop in your room to start store of your own.”

The girl pouted and turned to Harry he held his hand out in front of him as if warding her off. “Your dad said no, don’t look at me.”

“Awww,” the girl whined, but sped off again. Greg handed a beer across the table to Harry. 

“Kids,” he said, rolling his eyes. 

“They’re great,” Harry said softly, watching the chaos. Æthel had a troop of boys, some even old enough to be at Hogwarts, some of whom might have followed her home from there, trailing after her, Cassie was flying fast enough to make Hermione hide her face against her husband’s sleeve, and Alicia had cornered her mother, presumably to ask her her opinion on the joke shop expedition. Based on the way Alicia stomped off she didn’t like her mother’s answer either. 

“How’re you and Hermione doing?” Greg asked. 

Harry sighed. “She’s… we’re working on it,” he said at last. “There’s a lot to forgive on both our sides.”

Greg nodded. “Hardest thing in the world,” he said.

“I know,” Harry said, watching Alicia. “I know.”

**~ finis ~ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole fanfic, from the start, was structured around two questions I had: whether a Voldemort-type character could be a sympathetic protagonist and what would the personal cost be to an individual on the journey to take the kind of absolute power Voldemort was seeking. In chapter one, Hermione makes it fairly clear she plans to exploit racial/class tension to overthrow a duly elected democratic government and install herself as a dictator. By the end of Book One she’s well on her way to doing just that, but, of her two best friends from school, one is dead and one has had a nervous breakdown, and she’s lost a much-wanted baby in a gruesome and public way.
> 
> The economic scandal in Book One is loosely modeled on the Barmat Scandal of 1924/25 Weimar Republic Germany. The scandal was used by the conservative movement of the time, including the early Nazi party, to help its rise to power.
> 
> Hermione’s campaign speech in Chapter 31 closely follows, to the point of including entire phrases, Adolf Hitler’s speech on the Enabling Act, given on March 23 of 1933.
> 
> I used the Nazi allusions because Rowling has explicitly said Voldemort was modeled on Hitler and I wanted to keep that reference. Hermione, for all that she loves her husband and cares for her friends, is a pretty horrid person, in my opinion, in this fic. 
> 
> I spent much of writing time of the first half-listening to the musical Chess, and there are multiple allusions to that show sprinkled throughout the text. The most obvious is probably in chapter 23 when Hermione toasts her inner circle, saying “How straightforward taking over the world is when you have trust in your team.” That’s a paraphrase of the KGB agent in Chess, who says, “How straightforward the game when one has trust in one’s player.” 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it :)  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Art] The Beguiling of Draco Malfoy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661763) by [Ada_Lovelaced](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ada_Lovelaced/pseuds/Ada_Lovelaced)


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